The Editor

by Thomas William Simpson

Overview

The Editor (originally published by Bantam Books September 2001) The Editor decides who will live and who will die and who will live happily ever after... Sam Adams had the perfect life: a lovely wife, a devoted son, a job he loved, a comfortable home in a leafy suburb. But then a simple flat tire on Easter Sunday gave birth to a nightmare beyond all imagination. And now Sam must try to put his life back together. No longer able to rest easy in his suburban home, Sam rents a cottage on a secluded country estate. His new landlord is very mysterious, exquisitely beautiful, and blind. But far from being a helpless victim, Ms. Evelyn Richmond plays a strange game with Sam's already tangled mind, and with his tortured soul. What does the enigmatic Evelyn really want? Is she merely a bored and lonely woman? Or is she a dangerous sexual temptress? Sam, lost and broken, finds himself obsessed with and possessed by this sensuous and unsettling woman. He becomes snared in her carefully spun web of dark secrets and forbidden eroticism. Sam has no idea how far Evelyn Richmond will go, beyond what limits she will push him, or where their bizarre courtship will end. Nor will you... If you think you are beyond surprise, beyond shock... think again. The Editor is a fascinating psychological twister, a creepy and disturbing tale dissecting the depravity of the human soul. Thomas William Simpson explores a vast range of characters, plots, and emotions in his novels. The Editor, The Affair, The Caretaker, and The Immortal are all adventures into the dark side of human behavior.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781548507015
Publisher:	CreateSpace Publishing
Publication date:	06/30/2017
Pages:	366
Product dimensions:	5.51(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.82(d)

About the Author

The Editor has an interesting back story. I was writing The Fingerprints of Armless Mike when I read a news story about this tragic incident up in Vermont. It concerned an act of random violence and the profound impact the act had on this one particular man's life. He was traveling north with his wife and children to spend Thanksgiving with family in the northern part of the state. A late start from New York City caused them to check into a motel room outside Bennington. That night a deranged man broke into their motel room to rob them but wound up, after a scuffle, killing the wife. The husband suffered a nervous breakdown and wound up losing custody of his children.

I thought this tragedy demanded a rendering. And so I crafted a short, highly stylized novel around the above-described events. I showed the finished manuscript to my editor at Warner. She thought it a fine and tragic tale but felt it did not fit well with my other published novels (This Way Madness Lies, The Gypsy Storyteller, Full Moon Over America). My agent decided to try to sell it elsewhere and perhaps publish it under a pseudonym.

This is when I first met Kate Miciak who would soon become my editor at Bantam Books. She had read This Way Madness Lies and told me it was "one of the finest novels I have ever read. Period." This from a Wellesley English major who to this day is the best read individual I have ever known. Not only has she read every important piece of literature ever written in the English language but she retains plots and characters and themes with the clarity of a savant.

Kate said she wanted to buy my little book about this act of random violence that had killed one person and drastically altered the life of another. I was, of course, elated by her interest.

Kate did, however, have a caveat.

"I will buy the book," she said, "on one condition."

"Okay," I replied. "What might that condition be?"

"Well," she answered coyly, "there is one small change in the plot I would like you to make."

And now I must tell you, reader, with money and prestige on the line, I agreed with little or no reflection to make that change. I agreed to sell my literary soul to the Devil.

And thus began my immersion into the world of psychological suspense. That immersion produced The Caretaker, The Hancock Boys, and The Editor. And, more recently, The Affair and The Immortal.

Sorry, I can't tell you the small change Ms. Miciak requested I make. To find out you'll have to read the book!

Read an Excerpt

I n d i a n Te r r i t o r y, 1 8 7 5

The Indian's woman was standing at the edge of the cornfield when she shot me.

Moments before, I had placed the barrel of my Peacemaker just behind the Indian's ear. The press of cold steel seemed to do little to disturb his drunken sleep. He smelled like the bottom of a whiskey barrel. That, and wild onions. Strike a match, I figured we'd both go up in flames.

The Indian's name was Lucky Baker. But it wasn't the Indian I was after. It was a white man, name of Caddo Pierce.

Pierce was wanted for illegally peddling his snake-head whiskey to the Indians and pimping a fourteen-year-old half-breed girl throughout the Nations. I had a fugitive warrant in my hip pocket issued from Judge Parker's court for his arrest.

I already had four other prisoners chained in my wagon; a load of sorry souls I was taking back to Fort Smith to stand trial for various misdeeds. All of them white trash. Caddo Pierce was the last one on my list and I didn't intend to go back across the Arkansas River without him.

"Wake up, Lucky," I ordered the Indian.

"Mmmmm . . ." Lucky fluttered his lips, opened one eye, and closed it again as though I was a troublesome insect he was enduring.

I shook him again and thumbed the hammer back on the Peacemaker—a sound that usually got their attention, even if they were coldcocked by whiskey. But Lucky
didn't come around.

I swung a foot against the hammock he was sleeping in and spilled him on the ground. He hit hard. That woke him up. He cussed and spat dirt and came up to his feet swinging like a soft-brain prizefighter. I stuck the pistol in his face and said, "Don't bestupid." It had a sobering effect on him and he stopped swinging and looked down the long barrel of my revolver until his eyes crossed.

"Where's Caddo Pierce, that spit-for-brains brother-in- law of yours?" I asked.

Lucky's eyes uncrossed and rolled white in his head. He saw the other men, the ones chained in the prison wagon, watching him. In spite of their own misfortune they were enjoying the show. Lucky stammered and toed the dirt and said he didn't know anything about the white man.

"Don't waste any more of my morning," I said. "You can either tell me where Pierce is, or you can climb in that wagon with those other jacklegs and come with me to Fort Smith in his place. Which will it be?"

"I don't know where Caddo's at, Deputy. Honest."

"The hell you don't."

A man can lie to you all day long with his mouth, but his eyes will give him away every time. I was looking in those eyes when I saw them shift to something over my left shoulder.

I knew I'd made a mistake.

I was still turning, the pistol in hand, when I saw her standing there at the edge of the cornfield. She had what looked to be an old Springfield musket that was as long as she was tall, and she had it aimed at me with the barrel dancing small circles in the air.

It all happened quick, but slow if you know what I mean. If you've ever been shot. And in that spare bitter moment that took no longer than a breath, my finger hesitated. Even my gunfighter's instinct wouldn't let me shoot a woman. So, she shot me instead.

The ball hit me just below the collarbone and spun me sideways. Then the ground came up fast and I could taste dirt and something metallic, like a copper penny.
Judging by the impact, it was one of those large bores, a .51 caliber, maybe. Stung like a son of a bitch.

I looked at my outstretched hand and saw that I'd dropped my pistol somewhere in the tall weeds. I looked round, then saw Lucky running, darting like a rabbit. He joined up with the woman, and I watched helplessly as they ran into the cornfield, the stalks waving like a wind was passing through them, their dry leaves rustling against the heat.

Editorial Reviews

Book editor Sam Adams loved his wife Ellen and their son Ricky. However, tragedy struck on Easter Sunday when a lunatic killed both of his beloved family members. Although the killer received two life sentences, Sam wished for the death penalty. He begins keeping a journal in which he places entries almost every day. Still, Sam is unable to remain in the home he shared with Ellen and Ricky because he finds too many memories in every corner. To relieve his nightmares, on the spur of the moment Sam rents a cottage from a complete stranger Roger Richmond. Roger's mother Evelyn, a blind cellist of some note, lives in the nearby main house. Evelyn seems to enjoy flirting with Sam and soon he buries his grieving as he finds himself attracted to his landlady. Their relationship forges weird bond forms between them that helps Sam forget his grieving. Is it love or lust between two wounded souls and what path will it ultimately take? The Editor is a cleverly disguised suspense tale filled with twists and turns that will completely fool the audience. The story line is crisp as the reader learns what is going on through Sam's journal. Anyone who wants a taut psychological thriller will enjoy Thomas William Simpson's mindbending twister that is never solved until the climax.
—Internet Book Watch

Internet Book Watch