Free Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates Page A

true that Irina will call out to me, “Andrew? Are you all right?”
    Or, “Andrew? Are you having a bad dream?”
    Or, “Andrew! You were grinding your teeth again.”
    This time, Irina wasn’t (evidently) awake. Something had roused me from sleep at the climax of a dream of such chaos and confusion I’d immediately forgotten it—or rather, whatever it had been, possibly, fleetingly, involving the wild-white-haired woman— I was no longer able to recall.
    It was in such ways, at such times, that Jack of Spades most directly spoke to me. But I wasn’t always sure what Jack of Spades meant by his taunting words.
    . . . time.
    . . . perfect crime.

12 Temptation
    “Andrew? May I have a minute?”
    It was Grossman. I had not wanted to answer the phone but felt compelled out of duty.
    A week had passed since the hearing in the Hecate County courthouse. My dread of being exposed in the local media was abating slowly and I was back to work, or nearly. Still I checked my e-mail with trepidation, and rarely answered the phone unless I recognized the caller as someone whom I knew well and could trust.
    I’d hoped not to hear from my publisher’s lawyer again. The episode had been upsetting in ways I could not have explained. So far as I was concerned, the case was over.
    I was determined not to think of C. W. Haider ever again—though at weak moments I found myself staring into space and hearing the furious wrathful voice I will have justice!
    I wondered if the wild-white-haired woman had died in the hospital. For all I knew, she might have died of a stroke or a heart attack in the ambulance. For a fleeting moment I thought that Grossman might have been calling to tell me this and I did not know if I would feel relief, or guilty regret.
    But Grossman’s voice was ebullient, loud in my ear.
    “Very interesting development, Andrew! Are you prepared for a surprise?”
    No. No more surprises.
    “I suppose so. Yes.”
    “Remember, I’d predicted that this C. W. Haider had to be a ‘local crank’?—turns out that this is so. She has filed complaints against other writers—major writers—just as she did you. My paralegal did a little investigating, and discovered that Haider tried to sue Stephen King a few years ago. I wasn’t representing King at that time but I know the attorney who worked with him, and I gave him a call, and guess what, Andrew—”
    For a moment I couldn’t quite comprehend.
    Stephen King? She’d tried to sue—also?
    Andrew J. Rush is not special to her—after all?
    Grossman was saying that the case Haider had prepared against Stephen King was virtually identical to the one she’d prepared against Andrew J. Rush except for different prose passages from different books.
    Even the ridiculous breaking-and-entering charge was identical.
    “Imagine—the likelihood of Stephen King coming to Harbourton, New Jersey—to break into her house. ”
    Grossman laughed heartily. Indeed it was a preposterous fantasy.
    “In October 2004 there’d been a hearing in the same courtroom, with Haider ‘representing herself’ before the same judge.” This, Grossman thought particularly amusing.
    Weakly, I tried to laugh. “Really! The same judge . . .”
    Stephen King had been so alarmed by the woman, who’d also written threatening letters to him in care of his publisher, that he’d hired a private detective to investigate her. He’d been afraid that she might drive to Maine and stalk him and his family—afraid that she was crazy enough to try to kill someone. But the detective hadn’t turned up much that sounded dangerous, so King dropped the case.
    “You’re sure she has never written you threatening letters, Andrew? Maybe they went to the publisher, and didn’t get forwarded.”
    I had no idea how to reply to this. I was feeling mildly stunned and could not think coherently. Grossman’s ebullient laughter seemed to be suffocating me.
    “Your adversary has also tried to sue, over the years, John