Mr. Julius Flanagan, Novelist
He rose precisely at 6 a.m. as usual and drank his freshly- squeezed orange juice. It was slightly diluted with ice water as he thought it too abrasive to his stomach lining without the water. He looked out at the vegetation surrounding the ritzy cottage and was pleased to see that a gentle sea breeze had already started up. He knew many millions would simply die to have the life of privilege he lived here in sunny, warm Jamaica. It was all because of his books. People loved to read about larger-than-life heroes like his Roger Whittlebaum was. What marvelous feats couldn’t Roger perform in those novels? And now he was on his eighth book. When one had a highly successful formula…well, best to leave it be.
As he left the shower stall, Julius heard Bixby entering the bedroom.
“Good morning, Sir,” Bixby told his employer.
“Good morning, Bixby. The breeze is nice.”
“It is, Sir. Indeed. I have laid your clothes on the bed as usual. I hope you’ll like my selection.”
“You always say that, Bixby. How many times have I protested one of your selections?”
“Very few, Sir,” replied the assistant.
“Leave the clothes on the bed, Bixby. I’ve decided to swim early this morning. Before breakfast. Could you fetch my swimsuit now please?”
The assistant slightly nodded. “Of course, Sir. One moment.”
Since it was earlier than the hour he usually swam, Flanagan noticed that the water was a few degrees cooler. That, coupled with the briny sea breeze, gave his body gooseflesh when he left the water. So, he stayed in it, relishing the cleansing power it seemed to have.
He didn’t know how much time had passed, but it had to be something near twenty to twenty-five minutes. He also realized to his dismay that he’d gotten out too far. Entirely too deep, too. How stupid of him! He’d just have to work harder to push himself in toward shore.
But he couldn’t push himself inbound fast enough. He knew he kept sliding away from the shore. Farther and farther. He even began to get alarmed. Surely this wasn’t as serious as he was making it out to be. A grown man with no more judgment than a child’s…
“More than two hours have passed since he began his swim,” Bixby said to the two police officers who’d responded to his call from the cottage at 8:20. “I know it isn’t much time to deem a person as missing, but this is most unlike my employer.”
“We’ll try to get some divers down to the beach within the hour,” said one of the officers. “The best thing you can do Mr. Bixby is to wait here for some kind of news. There’s no way you can help us on the beach.”
The two officers left the cottage.
“Most unfortunate,” said the officer who had not spoken in the cottage. “Most unfortunate.”
THE END OF “MR. JULIUS FLANAGAN, NOVELIST”
