Epilogue

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I'm every woman, it's all in ... MEEEEEEEE!!!

[Thunderous applause]

"Hello, everyone! So glad to see y'all here today. We've got a beautiful spring day here in Chicago. And in honor of our beautiful June weather, we're going to be taking you back to winter, to six months ago, to the start of this new millenium.

"As many of you will recall, the New Year was rung in with a media event that was truly the summation of this century. No, I'm not talking about Y2K. I'm talking about the grand finale to the biggest contest of the century, the Sooner Than Never Treasure Hunt. It was the brainchild of the late Simon Waterbury, one of the country's biggest publishing moguls, a scavenger hunt that would require participants to travel from one end of the country to the other in search of clues hidden nationwide as well as in a gothic novel produced by the publisher.

"It was a parlor game built on mammoth proportions. And it ended at midnight on New Year's Eve with a bang, not with a whimper. Its solution hinted darkly at the uncovering of a vast government conspiracy. It brought to light a murder that had remained unsolved and, indeed, undetected for nearly a quarter of a century. It brought with it the death of three individuals -- Simon Waterbury, the sponsor of the contest; Chad Bismarck, a former Waterbury employee; and an unidentified Japanese immigrant whose suicide on the banks of the Hudson River in New Jersey appears to have been connected to the contest. And it paved the way for the subsumation of two major publishing interests, Waterbury Publishing and Takamoto Publishing, by a major competitor, Crescent Books.

"Today I have as my guest one of the key players in the Waterbury treasure hunt, Mr. Will Gilbert."

[Applause]

"Hi, Will. Thanks for joining us here today."

"Thank you, Oprah, I can't express to you how delighted I am to be here! The pleasure is certainly mine!"

"Now, Will -- Will is a very special person, because he rang in the New Year in a way that was ... well, it was pretty unique. Wouldn't you say so?"

[Chuckling] "Yes, you could say that."

"And where were you when the New Year rolled in, Mr. Gilbert?"

"I was on the Waterbury billboard in Times Square."

[Thunderous applause]

"And you solved the Waterbury treasure hunt, didn't you?"

"Well, yes, Oprah. But I didn't do it alone. I was ably aided and abetted by the charming and lovely Miss Laura Dial."

[More applause]

"But things, well, they didn't turn out quite the way you expected, now did they?"

"No, Oprah. They didn't. Something that a lot of people don't know is that Laura and I actually did solve the treasure and we did ring in on time."

"So you won?"

"That's right."

"So, Will -- Where are your millions of dollars?"

"Well, apparently, Mr. Waterbury is a bit of a trickster. He gave away all the money he promised, but he didn't give it to us. When we hit the button in Times Square, the money was released all at once, into the air. I guess we were supposed to notice that Waterbury hadn't specified how the money would be delivered."

"Kinda like one of those fairy tales -- don't ask for eternal life unless you ask to stay young as well!"

"Exactly."

"So where does that leave you? Right back where you started from?"

[Smiling] "Well, not precisely. I invested a lot of time and energy in this contest. But I got a lot out of it, too. We both did. We learned a lot. I think I can do a lot with the experience."

"Interesting. I want you to tell me more about that later on. But you mention that you learned a lot. Now, from what I've heard about this contest, I'd say your partner learned a lot as well."

[Pause]

"I'd rather not discuss that."

****

Laura leaned back in her plush leather chair and rubbed her eyes. Time for a break, she thought.

She thought that quite a lot lately.

Editing Amber Waves of Grain for publication turned out to be quite a bit of work. Not that she minded the labor. When Crescent Publishing approached her with the project (to be published under the imprint of the new Crescent subsidiary, Waterbury-Crescent Press), she had accepted without thinking twice. That was why she had taken on the treasure hunt, after all. She wanted a chance to get out of her professional rut and into some form of success. Director of New Project Development at Crescent Books certainly fit that bill to a 'T.' It was a title she never could have dreamed of achieving before the age of 35, maybe 40. So, all in all, she was content.

But the project had its challenges. First of all, no full manuscript remained. Only fragments and notes, scattered throughout Waterbury's expansive collection of personal and professional papers -- a chapter here, list of contacts there. It was as if ole Simon had planned a second treasure hunt just for her, posthumously.

Secondly, she had no idea if the project ever would see the light of day. The government had squelched the first attempt at publication; they had already approached Crescent with alternating offers and threats in exchange for burying this second attempt (and burning Waterbury's personal effects, to boot).

Their attempts thus far had failed, for a few compelling reasons. Crescent had weighed the feds' generous offer against the amount they estimated their edition -- with its advance publicity and the added appeal of the 'Laura Dial Romance' (as the marketing team termed it) -- and determined that their own efforts would far outstrip any offer made by a single entity. In addition, with the early leaks about Waterbury's lost text at the conclusion of the treasure hunt, the public was already clamoring for an edition -- and wouldn't swallow a quick cover-up. Finally, and most dramatically, Crescent couldn't hand over the Waterbury papers because they didn't own them. Laura did. A late codicil to Simon's will, dated August, 1999, decreed that all his personal and professional papers be entrusted to the loving care of one Laura Dial, "to whom I owe more than I can say." And he topped it off with a trust fund earning yearly dividends totaling $100,000.

For Laura, it was precisely Waterbury's so-called 'debt' -- his undeniable relationship to her -- that was so overwhelming. It made her fortune, but it gave her a knowledge she wasn't sure she wanted. Even now, six months after that fateful night, Laura was haunted by her connection to Lily and Simon.

And Vesper. And Philip.

She winced to think of it, as if she'd been struck physically.

But the project was an important one, so even though she didn't need the income Crescent was paying her, even thought she wanted like hell to run screaming from the indelible marks of her past -- her history on the page -- she stayed with the project, and slowly and methodically pieced together the fragments of Waterbury's magnum opus. His final work.

Laura sighed and shut out images of Vesper, her lips a slash of red against smooth, ivory skin; her icy, blue eyes. Shut out the knowledge that those eyes looked upon her mother as she breathed her last, as her body was dumped into the flaming mines of Centralia. Shut out the image of Gertie Huffman -- her grandmother -- as she fell to her death, the victims of Philip Huffman's cruel and perfectly manicured hands. Shut out the knowledge that Philip's blood, Vesper's, was her own.

Automatically, her hand reached for the bottom drawer of her large mahogany desk. Tripping along the perfectly ordered files, her fingers flew to the last file in the drawer. She pulled out a blank manila folder. Opening it, she revealed a stack of lined paper inscribed in longhand.

Lily Baker Waterbury: A Life

A tribute to her mother. A story she must research, she must tell. A story she would write first in secret. In longhand. On paper. No computer files to hack, to lines to tap. Private files, protected by the dust of obsolescence.

It was the only way to blot out the evil -- by inscribing the good.

******

"It seems the perspective we get on your experience was that it was a lot of hardship, a lot of trials. It really required kind of a 'leap of faith' to undertake this."

"Well, Oprah, we certainly had our difficulties, but you know, you never really know what you can do until you're forced into it. And I certainly got to see a lot of this great country of ours!"

[Applause, a few whoops.]

"And what, exactly, did you learn?"

[Smiling beatifically] "Well, I learned that -- if I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own backyard, because if it isn't there, then I never really lost it to begin with."

"That's a beautiful sentiment. And so true."

vampyr turned down the volume.

"shameless. he's simply shameless."

Faye entered from the tiny, sloppy kitchenette, a bowl of macaroni and cheese in each hand. "Oh, dear. What's our boy up to now?" She pushed a pile of clothes off the bed with her hip and gingerly lowered herself next to vampyr.

"you'd have to see it to believe it. he's playing oprah like a harp from hell."

Faye handed vampyr his lunch and settled in to eat her own. "You really should have some vegetables with that. You're going to die of malnutrition, here amidst the plenty of the midwest."

"i'll leeve on luff," vampyr answered, nuzzling her neck.

Not a bad arrangement, Faye thought, as a chill of pleasure tripped down her spine. Thanks to Will's and Laura's kind offices, she and vampyr had been come to be known as top-notch Internet-based sleuths. A Web-based David and Maddie, Will had suggested, eyes ablaze. Now based in Minneapolis ("i hear it's beautiful in the winter time," vampyr had said), they pulled in more money than Faye ever could have teaching basic composition courses as an adjunct instructor; even more than vampyr was earning as a Web programmer.

"that's the nice thing about working out of your own studio apartment-cum-love nest. daytime trash t.v. and free smooches during lunch break."

Faye dissolved into giggles as he nibbled her neck.

****

"And now, the hostess with the mostess ... she's fabulous, she's elegant, she's ... Shilah!"

Gliding in from behind a gauzy fuchsia chiffon curtain, the sleek figure of Vesper Shillington's former maid dominated the t.v. screen.

"Hello, darlings," she grinned at the camera, tilting her head coquettishly. "Welcome back for another fanciful little soiree. Today, the theme of The Shilah Show is 'My Husband Left Me ... Better Than Ever!'

"Our first guest is a former housewife from New York City. Her husband ... well, you won't believe this, my darlings. He was a cad, simply a cad! He cheated on her with another woman ... who was really a man! And then he walked out! But she got the last laugh, because earlier this year, he plummeted to an untimely death -- leaving her the sole beneficiary of a million-dollar life insurance policy. Please blow a kiss and give a warm Shilah welcome to ... Marcy Bismarck!"

The bartender's eyes bored into the screen over the bar. His muscles rippled as he reached for the remote control and quickly flipped the channel as a patron entered the sparsely populated bar.

"G'dye, mate. Pint please. And one for me mate."

The bartender glanced at the patron's companion, a sloe-eyed, saucy vixen. She smiled at him through pouting lips, her eyes quickly running from top of his dark-brown head to the bottom of his well-toned gluts. Sorry, chicky, he thought dully, You're not my type.

"Oh, look," the patron nudged his doxy and pointed to the screen. "It's that American bloke, the one in the treasure hunt. I heard he's a poof." The couple dissolved into snickers.

The bartender ignored them and turned back to the screen. His eyes narrowed to cold, thin, ice-blue slits.

"Yes, Oprah," the man on screen chimed in, "There were definitely complications. And, as you mentioned before, there are at least three deaths that can be traced to the contest.

"More ... if you count the murder of Simon Waterbury's wife. Did you hear 'bout that one?" Oprah asked her in-house audience. "That fella who passed as a woman and killed Simon Waterbury's wife!" The studio audience went wild, until Will stilled them with hushed, thrilling tones and a glance of great mystery.

"And you know, Oprah," he leaned in conspiratorially, "Mr. Philip Huffmann, a.k.a. Vesper Shillington, is suspected of even more recent murders -- murders that were never linked to the treasure hunt in the press."

The crowd exploded. "No!" She gripped her microphone in amazement. "And she ... he ... still hasn't been caught! I don't know what I'd do if I were you! Don't you just fear for your life?"

"Oh, I think she's harmless. Let her live her sad, petty, little life. I don't think we'll be hearing any more from her. And," Will blushed, "he was a lousy lay."

At the sound of a crash, the pub patrons snapped toward the bartender. A pint glass had slipped from his hand.

His icy blue eyes had leapt to flame.

*****

Laura put down the pen and glanced dreamily out the window at the gothic clock tower that faced her office. Damn, she thought. Will's broadcast. It was too late now; she'd missed most of it. But she didn't really need to see it. She knew he would perform splendidly. Better than she would. Never one to revel in the limelight, facing the press was something she now avoided like the plague.

And she was more than happy to give Will the glory. After all, he had received very little in the way of tangible goods from the treasure hunt. She'd help him out, though. She promised him, he could count on her.

It was more and more important, she mused to herself, to find those you could count on. Since her decision to leave Waterbury Publishing nearly two years ago, she'd seen all her assumptions overturned. She'd peered into the face of human evil and tested the strength of love and trust. She was wary now.

She knew she could trust Will. And Faye. She'd made a lot of new allies in the past two years, found friends who had stood by her.

But there would always be conflicting loyalties and unseen complications.

She stretched idly, and wondered where in the world Mike was right now. The last she'd seen of him was a grainy photo in the back section of the L.A. Times. "Federal Agent Brings Down Lone Gunman." The story detailed how Waterbury's assassin had been shot and killed by an FBI sharpshooter. It suggested that the others crowded on the Sooner Than Never billboard would have suffered the mogul's fate had it not been for the sniper's accurate and quick action.

He saved my life, she pondered lazily. And probably more than once. But he'd also lied to her. And supported a cause he didn't understand, all in the name of duty. Could that be trusted?

She didn't know.

She didn't know if she'd want to see him again.

She knew she would.

****

"Well, friends, we're back, and just in time to say goodbye to our fascinating guest, Will Gilbert. Will, it sounds like you've got some exciting projects ahead of you that hopefully will make up for your disappointments with Waterbury's lost treasure."

"Well, I certainly hope so. It's been great to be here - a dream come true!"

Will snapped off the t.v. The Oprah appearance had gone well. He'd gotten in a word for his upcoming novelization of the "Will and Laura Story" (a work in progress), and planted the seeds in the public imagination of the need for a subsequent t.v. miniseries based on the same. Maybe Waterbury hadn't given him his millions, but Will would earn his keep off the Sooner Than Never treasure hunt nonetheless.

And, of course, he had gotten a few bucks out of the old guy already. Upon hearing of her trust fund, Laura had immediately offered Will a half-share in her yearly dividend - a sumptuous salary by Will's waiter/actor standards. After flamboyantly refusing her gracious gesture no fewer than three times, he accepted coyly, and promised her a share of the take of his eventual profits.

"It's really an investment, you see," he had crooned. "Hollywood has deep pockets." He would use the money to bankroll his initial work on his novel, and started by purchasing a small, tidy bungalow in the Hamptons, the perfect place to sneak away and play Nick Carraway for a year or so, and entertain regular week-end visits from Laura.

And hopefully, in the not too distant future, from Officer Jack Thibodoux as well.

Will glanced at a framed photo of the sweet-faced, meticulous young man beside his computer. Jack would be there soon. It would take a few months for him to receive his transfer to the NYPD (especially considering the rumors regarding his breach of conduct on New Years' Eve). But Will was confident he would soon be sitting beside him on his small front porch, gazing past the white picket fence at the Atlantic Ocean.

Will sighed contentedly, and his eyes slipped to the photo beside Jack's. It portrayed Will linked arm-in-arm with a tall, thin young man, aquiline-featured and olive complected. The presence of the photo, out in the open, stood as monument to a sea-change in Will's behavior. Typically, once a man had walked out of Will's life, he was out for good -- particularly if the other man initiated the walking.

But things had turned out differently with David Nimoy. For some time, Laura had suspected that David had been working on her and Will's behalf from behind the scenes. It was only after the end of the treasure hunt that the full story had come out -- that David was the one who had reported their car crash all those months ago on that cold prairie highway. That he had, in effect, saved their lives.

For Will, it meant the salving of old wounds. For Laura, it meant the recognition of yet one more ally in a world where allies seemed few and far between. And for David -- it meant success beyond his wildest dreams. Laura and Will gave David a career-making scoop -- agreeing to speak to him and only to him after the tumultuous turning of the new century. His future was made.

But what of young Will Gilbert's future?, Will asked himself. It wouldn't make itself. He sighed, bent toward the glowing computer monitor, and began to type:

Chapter 1: Waylaid on the Road to Riches

The phone rang. William Jeremy Gilbert II sat up in his futon, dimly wondering what day it was, where he had been sleeping, and who on earth could be calling him at such an ungodly hour ...

SO. . . Could you please take a few moments to answer a few questions? Cut and paste the questions below and send your answers HERE:

Waylaid Questionnaire:

1. Which (if any) character would you cut? Why?

2. Did any plot points seem extraneous?

3. Did any plot points seem implausible (too implausible to keep your attention)?

4. Was the conclusion satisfying? If not, what questions remained unanswered?

5. What was your favorite episode (chapter, clue, location, plot twist, etc.)? Why?

6. What was your least favorite? Why?

Also feel free to include any compliments, questions, criticism, confusion. Even if you don't want to send us your extended deconstruction of the novel, email us anyway. . .we DESPERATELY want to know who you are and where you are. Besides, we will need to notify you before the launch of WAYLAID AGAIN: VESPER'S REVENGE. . . .

Anything is possible.

And don't worry. We won't sell your email address to anyone or tell them you've been logging on to our fetid little story while at work.

Thanks for taking this trip with us!

Hugs and Smackers,
Chris and Kay

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