My entry in the WTIWContest

The one detective closed his folder and reached to the recorder. "Interview suspended, four twenty-seven." They both stood and left the room without a backward glance.

I yawned and stretched my arms above my head, then checked my watch. "Damn, almost midnight. No wonder my back's sore." I looked at the screen once more then saved the file and closed my laptop. I had been writing for three and a half hours straight without a break – well, not writing the whole time, still . . . I got up, winced over my stiff knees and shut out the light, making my way down the hall in the dark.

My publisher had insisted on a deadline, like ideas are just off the shelf. But the money was good, and I had my agent to pay for some pretty decent hard work on my behalf. Another couple of days should see a first draft ready for review.

Linda was already sound asleep, so I had a gargle, a quick tooth brush, and carefully lay face down on the bed, asleep in seconds.

******

The door to the room opened and the two detectives strode in, both taking the chairs across from the subject. One flipped a switch on the machine.

I was suddenly aware of my senses as they fed messages to my brain and squinting my eyes slowly open, I puzzled at the surroundings. A small room. No windows, and dull green walls lit by naked, flickering, fluorescent bulbs.

The only furnishings were a table with four straight-backed chairs, two holding the detectives and one which I occupied.

"Interview commenced four forty-six. Detective Sergeant Jakes, Detective Powell, and suspect James Lewis present."

He flipped open his folder and slid a picture across the table to me.

"You recognize this woman?"

I smiled slightly, looking at them. Jakes and Powell? Those were names of my characters in the story I was writing.

"Subject declined to answer—"

"No, wait," I chuckled, "sure I know her. Dolores Hayes"

"How did you know her?"

"Up here," I tapped my temple, "I wrote her."

They exchanged glances. "You wrote to Ms Hayes."

"No. I wrote Ms Hayes. She's a character in my story – actually she's the victim."

The one named Jakes added another picture to the one in front of me. It was a grainy CCTV shot of me in my car, and in the corner a time stamp.

"Do you agree that's a picture of you, Mister Lewis?"

"I guess, although I don't know where it was taken."

"It's at the exit of the underground garage at the Victory Hotel."

"The Vict- that's where my character was killed. In the garage!" I grinned, nudging the photo forward.

"Are you saying you killed Ms Hayes in the hotel Victory garage, Mister Lewis?"

I leaned forward, eager to discuss the plot. "Yes, she was there confronting Wendell Hunt, who was cheating on his wife with her. That's the plot of my story."

"You keep saying story, Lewis, just what does that mean?"

I sat back, grinning. "This," I said, waving my arms, "this is all my story. You two, Dolores, the hotel, all of it. It's what I'm writing."

"And did you write this?" Jakes slid another sheet across the table. "Your fingerprints on the body and on the side of the vehicle she was found beside?"

"Of course not. That isn't in my story."

The two detectives looked at one another, then Jakes gathered the material and put it back in his file.

"In my story, Hunt is the killer. He caught on to what she was doing and—"

Jakes slapped the file on the table. "I don't know what kind of diminished capacity crap you're trying to pull here, Lewis, but it won't wash."

"Diminished capacity! That's good. I never thought of that. Have you got a pen I can borrow?"

Jakes glared at me, reaching for the recorder. "James Lewis, I am arresting you for the murder of Dolores Hayes. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you. Interview suspended at five-ten."

He stared at me a little longer, and then they both got up and left the room, while a uniformed officer cuffed my hands behind my back. How weird. Am I still asleep, dreaming? I bit my lip, gaining nothing but a sharp pain, and I was handcuffed and being shoved along a corridor to a cell.

******

I blinked at the bright light and covered my eyes. Sunlight was streaming across the bed and I lifted up on one elbow. My bed. My room. I looked at my watch and saw that it was mid-morning. I fell back and stretched. What a dream that was. Linda's side of the bed was cool; she must have just let me sleep.

Crawling off the bed, I made my way to the bathroom. The mirror lied to my face. I didn't look rested at all. The person I knew stared back, eyes a little puffy, skin with a sickly pallor, and a bare shadow of beard.

I made my way to the kitchen where my laptop idled on the table and brought up my draft pages, scrolling to the end of what I had written.

The one detective closed his folder and reached to the recorder. "Interview suspended, four twenty-seven." They both stood and left the room without a backward glance.

I stared absently at the pattern on the butter dish beside the laptop. What the hell had happened? Where did the bit about the arrest and the jail cell come from? If it was a dream, it was a bit too real for comfort. I thought about it for a while and then went through my notes, reading aloud.

"Dolores Hayes is Wendell Hunt's girlfriend. She finds out he's married and threatens to tell his wife. Money. Argument. Wendell kills Dolores."

I paused, yawning. Man, I'm still tired. I closed my eyes . . .

******

Detective Sergeant Jakes stood in the Lewis apartment looking at the computer while officers thoroughly searched the rest of the rooms. He called up recent files and sat down to read the screens.

"Anything?" his partner asked.

"Christ, it's all here just like he said. He's written the whole thing the way he told it to us. In this version, Wendell Hunt is the killer."

"Who the hell is this Hunt guy? We never found anything about a Wendell Hunt." Powell leaned over and hit a few keys, and a moment later copies appeared in the printer tray. He picked up the first few and began reading. "This is nuts. It's our interview, almost word for friggin' word."

Jakes got up, stripping off his latex gloves. "Print it all and bring it back to the shop."

"What are you gonna do?" Powell kept picking up printed pages.

"I'm going to see if there is a Wendell Hunt registered at the Victory Hotel – or was. Something about that part of his story sounded almost credible."

******

I sat on the hard cot in my cell. There was a small window, up high, giving a view of the sky. This was crazy. How could I be arrested for the murder of a character I wrote? Was it too much pressure to get the story written. It was taking a dangerous toll. I needed to speak to my agent, we needed an extension. The cell door opened, and without a word I was taken back to interrogation.

******

I could hear voices outside the door but not what was said. Jakes had paused to speak to his partner before coming in the room.

"Sorry to drag you in, partner. I found Hunt and got his statement. He swears he never knew her, or anybody named Lewis either. And, apparently Lewis' lawyer is arranging bail."

The door to the room open and the two detectives entered.

"Interview commenced four forty-six. Detective Sergeant Jakes, Detective Powell, and suspect James Lewis present."

Jakes flipped open his folder and slid two pictures across the table. "Do you agree that's a picture of you, Mister Lewis, and the other is Dolores Hayes?"

"Yes, I saw them before."

Another sheet was passed over. "And you saw this report about your fingerprints at the crime scene?"

"Yes, but I—"

"That's you leaving the Victory Hotel garage a few minutes after Ms Hayes was killed." Jakes thumped the photo with his finger. "What were you doing at the hotel?"

"I wasn't at the hotel. I told you, this is a story I wrote. Dolores, Hunt, you two – you're just characters in a story."

A knock at the door and a head poked inside.

"Got a sec, Detective."

They left the room and I put my head down.

******

"We may have a problem. The doorman at the Victory called because he was concerned about Hunt. After I left from getting his statement, he stormed out of the hotel, grabbed a cab and took off."

"You think he could be going after Lewis? Did we get a trace on the cab?"

"Yes and yes. Trouble is, we can't find Lewis either. He didn't go home after getting bailed out." Jakes fussed with his car keys. "We need to get to Hunt before he screws up our case."

"You don't think there's the off chance Lewis is innocent?"

"No, I don't. But he doesn't deserve rogue justice either."

******

I jerked awake, gaping around in a panic. My home. My kitchen. My laptop. I sagged in the chair and sighed with relief. That's it, I need a break. I can't write to deadlines, I don't care what they say. I hunted around for my phone, determined to call my agent.

The banging on the door just made me angry, and I crossed to the hall, opening it, prepared to shout. The figure burst through, knocking me back down the hall onto the floor.

"What the hell?"

"You bastard, Lewis!" The man kicked at me and I rolled away, scrambling to my feet.

"Who the hell are you . . .?" I stopped short, staring. I knew him. The face, the hair, the small scar by the eye. "Wendell Hunt!"

"That's right. The guy you set up for the murder of Dolores Hayes."

The gun came from nowhere, and I was staring, transfixed. Was I dreaming again? This can't be. "You aren't real. I wrote you."

"Yeah? Well, now I'm writing you – your epitaph."

He aimed at me, and I dove at him, instinctively. We crashed to the floor and the gun went off. A moment later I felt hands roughly grabbing me and hauling me to my feet. Handcuffs were slapped on my wrists and a familiar voice whispered loudly in my ear.

"Got you cold this time, Lewis."

******

Time passed. I don't know how long. What I did know was that I had been tried and convicted of murdering Dolores Hayes and killing Wendell Hunt. I was completely baffled. Was I still dreaming? I had to be, this was a story I was writing. But why couldn't I wake up? The cell door opened and three men came in. The warden, the jailer . . . and a priest. I listened, stunned, with the realization that this was the preparation for an execution.

In a daze, I walked down the corridor into the sunlight. Another man stood by a large lever, while a second waited, holding a hood by his side. Any second I'll wake up, I know it. I stepped forward, feeling the hood placed over my head and the rope adjusted around my neck. God, this was so real!

Time to wake up Lewis, I said, as the floor disappeared beneath my feet.

END