Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

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Текущая страница: 11 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Hello, self. Guess what? You have no idea what’s ahead of you. The thought made him grin. He took another sip of coffee, then turned at the sound of her bare feet on the hardwood floor. “When was this?”

She glanced at it. “Nineteen ninety . . . six? Around there. Hollywood Orphans.”

“Huh?”

“I keep forgetting that you don’t remember. Every Thanksgiving I host dinner for Hollywood Orphans. Friends who don’t go home for the holiday.”

“Where is home?”

“You were born in Little Rock. But home was always here.”

“I don’t have family?”

“Depends what you mean.”

He nodded. “So I’ve lived here a long time.”

“You used to say that one of the things you loved about Los Angeles was that it had no memory. Kind of ironic now, huh?”

“Yeah.” He leaned in. “So’s that haircut.”

“Not your finest hour, on a fashion level. But then, like you always say. Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

“I say that?”

“All the time, sweetie. That and ‘It’s easier to ask forgiveness than permission.’ The twin pillars of the Daniel Hayes Philosophy of Life.” Sophie straightened and said, “I got hold of Jen. She was going into a deposition, only had a minute. But she’s in. She says that from what I told her, you’ll be fine.”

“Really?”

“Her exact words were ‘By the time I’m done, that sheriff will be wondering if there’s a god in heaven.’ ”

He shook his head. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“It’s what we do. Anyway, Jen is going to come over as soon as she’s out of court. Probably won’t be until six or so. She said that meanwhile you should just stay put.”

“Not a chance.”

“Huh?”

He turned to her, put his hands on her arms. “I was thinking about it while you were on the phone. You’re a lawyer.”

“This took thinking?”

“What I mean is, I can’t stay here. I’m a fugitive. You’re harboring a fugitive. I didn’t go to law school, but I’m guessing that won’t go over so well.”

“It’s not—”

“You’ve already given me more than I ever dreamed. I’m not going to do anything that could get you in trouble. Hell, you could probably get disbarred for this.”

She hesitated.

“Right?”

“I doubt it. Besides, no one needs to know.”

“I’m not going to risk your career over this. I’m just not.”

“So what—”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going all Charles Bronson. I’ve got a room at a shithole hotel downtown. I’ll pick up some Thai takeout, lock the door, and wait for your call.”

She paused, that professional mask back up, the one that meant she was weighing the arguments. Finally, she said, “You’ll stay there?”

“Cross my heart.” He smiled at her. “Anyway, I’ve got the laptop, there’s a lot still to go through. Maybe I’ll find something that can help us.”

She nodded slowly. “All right. That makes sense. I’ve got work to do anyway.”

“A studio to squeeze?”

“A party to manage. Too G.”

“Huh?”

“The rap star, Too G. The premiere of his movie is tomorrow night, and he’s throwing a big press party at a club called Lux. It’s a pain in the ass. He’s ‘gangsta,’ ” making air quotes, “so the whole thing has to look tough. We’re hiring security, setting up metal detectors at the door, hiring limos with bulletproof glass, all to maintain the illusion that Tudy Wadell is a dangerous man.”

“Gotta love Los Angeles.”

“It’s a company town, what can you do. Anyway, how do I reach you?”

“I bought a cell phone last night.” He gave her the number. “One more thing.” He bit his lip.

“What?”

“I—this sounds weird, but would you mind. Could I—would you—”

“Spit it out, kiddo.”

“Could I hug you again?” He shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s just, it’s been.”

To his relief, she didn’t say anything. She just smiled up at him and opened her arms. He stepped into the warmth and safety of them, squeezed her hard. God, but it felt good to have someone love him.

When he stepped back a moment later, he said, “You be careful.”

“You’re the fugitive.”

“Yeah, but. Just do, okay?” He opened the door, stepped out, then turned. “And thanks again. For everything. Most people would have let me hang.”

“Hey,” she said. “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”

Daniel smiled at her, then stepped outside, walked to his car. As he cranked it up, he glanced back, saw her framed in the door. The expression on her face was hard to read, a complicated blend of emotions, happy and sad all mixed together.

It was a gift.

He waved to her, then pulled away. The sun poured down, and Daniel rolled the windows open and turned on the radio. He hadn’t had much use for it in the past few days, but now he wanted music, loud rock and roll filled with joy. He flipped around until he found something with a pounding guitar and crisp snare, a singer yelling about being only seventeen and holding back his screams, about him and his girlfriend burning the sheets down to the seams. He cranked the volume, banged out the beat on the steering wheel as he merged onto the 10.

For the first time he could remember, he felt okay. Better than. The questions that had been clawing at his brain would have answers. No more running. No more fear. He would finally be able to face things. The relief was tremendous. All that sprinting and hiding and shadowy panic, it had been like a straitjacket that tightened every time he squirmed. He glanced in the rearview—traffic light behind him, a couple of imports, a big white van—and pressed down on the accelerator. The road open before him, a good song, and a plan. He sang along, surprised to find that he knew the lyrics: Your memory bla-zes through me, burning everything, like gasoline, like gasoline, like gasoline.

The song ended, and a DJ came on. Daniel turned the volume down, then realized he was doing almost ninety. Whoa there. He braked to a steady sixty.

Okay. So.

Back to the Ambassador. Get settled. Take a shower, make sure he looked sane for Sophie’s lawyer. Then spend the afternoon reviewing the laptop. He’d barely scratched the surface. There might be some sort of clue, an e-mail from Laney maybe, that would help them figure out what the deal was. Whatever had happened, it had the elements of a classic conspiracy plot—shadowy men with guns, a missing diamond necklace worth more than a house—and as a storyteller, he knew those things came with a backstory.

The radio settled on an old Cracker tune, Being with you girl, like being low, hey hey hey like being stoned. He turned the volume back up, but watched his speed this time, glanced in the mirror as he signaled.

It was only after he had moved into the next lane that he realized the white van was still behind him.

So what? Where else would it be?

But then, he’d been going pretty fast for a couple of minutes. The van had kept pace. And when he had slowed down, so had it. Daniel kept his eyes flickering between the road in front and the mirror. Couldn’t make out much; it was a big panel van, the kind landscapers and cleaning crews favored, not unlike a million others. There was a long and vicious dent in the side, evidence of some past collision. The distance kept him from making out the driver’s features, but he wore a baseball cap and sunglasses.

Let’s see. Daniel signaled right again, then took the next exit, north on Fairfax. The van followed. Daniel snapped the radio off, turned right on Venice. The van stayed with him.

His happy mood vanished like fog. Someone was following him. Not the police. Even if the van was the world’s lousiest undercover vehicle, they would have had plenty of time to box him with squad cars. Who, then?

He was so calm. That was the worst part. I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.

Daniel’s fingers clenched the wheel, his palms wet. The man who had broken into Sophie’s house and held her at gunpoint. The one who had been searching for him, asking about a diamond necklace.

The man who had killed his wife.

The light at Hauser was red, and he slowed, then pulled into the left turn lane. Again, the van followed.

Okay. Simple. Wait for a break in traffic, then instead of going left, floor it. Race across the intersection. Other cars will block the van in. By the time the light changes, you’ll be long gone.

How could the guy have found him? Los Angeles was huge. The chances that they’d randomly bumped into one another were incalculably small. Daniel’s spine felt like an ice cube had been run down it. This asshole must have picked him up at Sophie’s. Which meant he’d go back there if Daniel lost him. And this time, he wouldn’t just scare her.

I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.

No. No chance.

The light turned green, and Daniel moved forward. Two cars between him and the van. You need a plan. You can not, can not, let any harm come to Sophie. Besides, this man murdered your wife. Wouldn’t you rather chase him than run from him? So think. You’re the writer.

Write something.

5

Belinda was smiling.

Staking out Sophie’s house had been a calculated guess. The lawyer had sent Daniel a pile of messages, telling him to come see her, to do it soon. But even Belinda hadn’t imagined it would happen that fast. Hell, she and Daniel Hayes might both have been reading his e-mail at the same time.

She stayed a few cars behind Daniel’s BMW, kept her speed steady as he wound up Hauser, then turned left on Third. He signaled again almost immediately, then pulled into the parking lot of the old Farmers Market. Against the blue of the sky, the white clapboard clock tower looked ridiculously picturesque, more appropriate for rural Maine than the outskirts of Beverly Hills. It was early yet, and the parking lot was only half-full. She let Hayes get ahead of her, chose a spot near the entrance. She took the gun from behind her back, set it on her lap. Through the windshield, she saw Daniel get out of his car and saunter toward the entrance, bright Hawaiian shirt easy to track. He moved like a man without a care.

Go after him here? Not ideal. There were too many people about, too many prying eyes. Probably some security cameras inside too. Belinda killed the engine and leaned back. Daniel wasn’t going anywhere without his car. She’d wait, then follow him somewhere she could approach him alone. She eyed the people walking in and out: a mother with a kid, a couple of teenage girls, a well-dressed man moving lightly. Belinda squinted. Was that—

She snatched up the gun and threw open the door of the van.

5

Bennett walked quickly, but not so quickly anyone noticed. The gate to the Farmers Market was open, throngs of people inside, and Daniel Hayes had strolled in like he didn’t have a care in the world.

Asshole. Every cop in the state looking for him, and here he was in a populated place. If someone recognized him, it was game over.

Ah well. The soul of tactics was flexibility in your approach to a goal. The best chess players saw the whole board fresh every move, and reacted accordingly. Which was why he’d figured that even if Sophie wasn’t lying to him, she was still worth watching, and that had paid out. He’d just have to adapt again. Follow the guy, lure him out of sight—the man didn’t know what he looked like, after all—and take him.

Then go somewhere quiet and convince Daniel to give him what he wanted.

He stepped inside, past a toy store, a T-shirt place, a churrascaría. Bennett slipped through the crowd, looking for his man.

5

Daniel’s palms were wet, but he made himself move slowly, not turn around. This would only work if the guy didn’t think he’d been spotted. Daniel was willing to bet that he wouldn’t last long in a fair fight.

So don’t fight fair.

He took a quick lap around the market. Rich smells came from every direction, dizzying in their variety, salsa verde overlapping chocolate; caramel corn battling roasting beef. The sun slipped through gaps in the canvas tents. At a nearby bar, a group of men exploded in laughter.

There was a place that sold sunglasses and jewelry, and he stopped, pulled a pair of shades off a display, tipped them way down his nose and looked in the tiny mirror. Over his shoulder, men and women of all ages moved through the aisles. A lot of them wore baseball hats. Damn. He put the sunglasses back on the rack, kept moving. He needed a quiet place, somewhere away from all these crowds.

He started working his way to the outskirts. Glancing at every man he passed, wondering which one was the killer. The Mexican with the tattoos? The dude in the suit? A short, ripped guy wearing a Dodgers cap? It could be any of them. Be cool. He won’t make a move on you in this crowd.

He hoped that was true.

5

Belinda had sprinted across the parking lot, going for a gate a little farther down. No point coming in right behind Bennett. “Excuse me,” she said, nearly knocking over an aproned man with pork– chop jowls. She stopped at the corner of a barbeque place on the east patio. Plastic tables and chairs, the sweet smell of garbage, the closed-in feeling of tent shadows. No sign of Daniel, but she saw Bennett moving west, and mirrored him one aisle over. The gun tucked in the belt of her jeans chafed her belly.

A deli, a candle store, an aromatherapy place. It was crowded, and she couldn’t see Bennett. Was she reading him wrong? Maybe he was just following Daniel, making sure the man didn’t vanish.

No. Bennett had always said that the trick was to be very careful until it was time to act boldly. Coming in wasn’t careful. Which meant—

Daniel Hayes crossed her row, all the way at the end, the bright print on his shirt slipping between the tables of diners.

Belinda glanced around. No sign of Bennett. She’d have to move anyway. She touched the pistol through her shirt, then started forward as fast as she dared.

5

After the crowded halls of the food court, the maintenance hall was a stark change. Painted institutional gray and lit by fluorescents, it screamed “employees only.” Daniel stepped into it and around the corner. The hall ran thirty yards before turning the corner. There were a couple of doors near the end, closets maybe?

Halfway down, two men leaned against opposite walls, talking in Spanish. They glanced up at Daniel, then went back to their conversation. Damn. The place was perfect, other than these two.

So get rid of them. He walked over, said, “What, you guys don’t have jobs to do?”

A guilty look flashed across one of their faces, but the other said, “We’re on break. Who are you?”

“Excuse me?’ Daniel raised an eyebrow. “You think this place manages itself?”

“You’re not my boss—”

“Believe me, I am. This is a working market, boys. You’re on break, fine. But don’t be cluttering up my hallways.”

For a moment he thought the man might push him, but then the old power dynamic took over. White man with attitude trumps Hispanic in an apron. A shitty fact of life, maybe, but he’d worry about moral righteousness later. The guilty one said, “Sure, sure, no problem.” They began down the hall, one of them muttering in Spanish, “¿Quien se cree? Mamón presumido.”

“Y cuidate lo que dices, pendejo,” Daniel replied over his shoulder, then did a double-take. Huh. I know Spanish. Cool.

Focus. There wasn’t much time. Before heading into the hallway, he’d walked a couple of circuits of the market, wanting to make sure that the killer was able to follow him. It had been incredibly hard not to look back, knowing that his wife’s murderer was behind. Soon enough, you’ll get a look at the fucker. A look and more.

He raced to the end of the hall, tried the left-hand door. A janitor’s closet, mops and pails and brooms. The door on the other side opened into a small employee bathroom, the tile dingy, a roll of paper towels sitting on the sink.

Make a stand here, or go back out and see what’s around the corner?

Daniel opened the janitor’s closet again. A dark, private place. So long as he didn’t dawdle, he could do anything he wanted here. All he had to do was lure the man in.

He smiled and set to work.

5

Belinda lost Daniel, then, as she rounded the end of the row, saw him vanishing down an employee’s hallway. She took a moment, scanned the crowd. Hundreds of people, the static noise of overlapping conversations, of forks grinding plates and chairs scraping concrete. But no sign of Bennett. Maybe he hadn’t seen Daniel head down this way.

It doesn’t matter. You’re Belinda Nichols. You’re a dangerous woman with a loaded gun. And the man you’ve been looking for just went into an empty hallway.

She took a breath, started forward. A couple of Hispanic guys walked out of the hallway, one of them pissed about something, the other trying to make a joke. Belinda let them pass, then started down the hall.

The floor was tile, the lighting bright. About thirty yards away, the hall turned another corner, maybe out to the trash? Perhaps this whole thing had been a game. Maybe Daniel had known he was being followed, wanted to lose them in the crowd. He could be doubling back right now, heading for his car.

She hurried down the hallway, her sneakers squeaking on the floor. When she was almost to the end, she noticed that the door on the left wall was open a crack. She slowed, glanced behind her, nerves popping like firecrackers. The light inside the door was out, and she couldn’t see much but shadows and shapes . . . and a green and blue pattern. One a lot like the shirt Daniel had worn.

He’s hiding in the closet.

Belinda hurried forward, reached for the handle, and yanked the door open.

5

Daniel had never known his heart could beat so loud. He half worried the killer would hear it. He squeezed his eyes closed, took a deep breath. You get one shot at this.

The mop handle felt right in his hands, the wood smooth, the finish worn off by a thousand nights of cleaning. He listened, knowing the man was coming, wanting him to, but scared too, the fear a taste in his mouth.

Footsteps, and a squeak like tennis shoes.

He held his breath, choked up on the stick. Come on, come on.

The footsteps paused. Then suddenly they were hurrying, and he heard the sound of the door opening.

Now.

With his left hand he ripped open the door to the bathroom and lunged out, the makeshift bat cocked back, ready to take the killer’s head half off, to beat the man helpless. He swung as he stepped out, taking aim at the temple of the—

It was a woman. Lithe, slim, and wearing a baseball cap.

5

Belinda yanked open the door of the janitor’s closet, the light flickering on as she did, so that she could see brooms and mops and a sink with a slow drip, a drop of water trembling at the faucet. A bucket stood just inside the door, the broken handle of a mop sticking straight up, a black Hawaiian shirt with blue and green parrots draped over the top, the whole thing like an anemic scarecrow. What the—

There was a noise behind her, the scrape of a door, and she whirled, one hand flying to her belt, fumbling against the gun as Daniel Hayes surged at her, a mop handle in one fist. She flinched back, watching that arc of wood whistling toward her with more than enough force to bat her arm aside. She could imagine the snapping sharp pain that would numb her hand, then the smack as it hit her head, stars and comets and the world hopping.

Only the blow never landed. At the last second Daniel pulled it, twisting awkwardly to bring the club whistling over her head. Momentum kept him going, following through like a batter at a pitch, and he stopped, arms up in an awkward backhand pose. He froze. His fingers opened, and the stick clattered to the floor.

Belinda lowered her hands. Daniel stared at her. It looked like he was trying to speak but had forgotten the muscles. He blinked, gaped, blinked. Managed to twist his lips into motion. “You?” His voice dry and thin. “But. You’re—”

“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.”

And then Laney Thayer stepped forward and threw her arms around her husband.

ACT TWO, PART TWO

“People always think something’s all true.”

–J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye

S

omeone had hooked electrodes up to either ear and slammed waves of electricity through his skull. His brain was static and noise. Questions surged on that buzzing sea, thoughts tumbled and spun. The mop handle slipped from his fingers and hit the floor with a hollow clatter.

His wife was alive.

Dressed in a plain T-shirt and jeans, her hair now blond and pulled through the back of her baseball cap, a splotchy mark like a bruise running up her cheek and across one eye, but all of that no more concealing to his eyes than tissue paper. There were the high cheekbones, the pale pink lips he’d kissed a hundred thousand times, the long graceful neck, and the eyes, the eyes, bright and alive.

The connection between body and mind strained. He felt like a marionette with half the strings cut, a jerky, drunken thing. Was he going mad, really mad? Had all of this been some crazy dream? How could she possibly . . .

He blinked, swallowed, made his lips move. “You? But. You’re—”

“Dead. I know. I’m so, so sorry, Daniel.” Emily Sweet’s voice, the one he’d followed home from the edge of death. And then Laney threw herself at him, her arms ringing his sides and squeezing, her body fitting tight, the smell of her, that old familiar smell of home.

His wife was alive. Alive, and in his arms.

The wife whose loss had driven him to suicide. The woman he had fallen back in love with only to realize she was gone. Somehow she had crawled out of the underworld to stand in his arms.

A choking sound wrenched from his chest, and he pulled her tighter. She responded, crying and laughing against him, her skin warm, and the charge running through his body was like a swim in ancient waters, like finishing a screenplay, like over-proof bourbon and an expensive cigar, like making love for the first time. He could flex his arms and knock down the world.

“I thought you were. My god, how– Are you okay?”

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Her words tumbling against his chest. “I wanted to find you, but you were gone, and I couldn’t go to the police, he had to think I was dead, it was the only way.”

“The only way to– What do you mean?”

“We have to go.” Laney pushed back from him, glanced down the hall. “Bennett’s here.”

“What’s a Bennett?” His fingers tasted the softness of her arms.

She cocked her head, said, “Huh?”

“I don’t know what—”

“Bennett, Bennett, the guy who.” She stopped. “Are you okay?”

“Well . . .”

Someone laughed out in the common area, and the echo of the sound made her jump. “Later. Let’s go. You have to trust me.” Laney’s eyes entreated. “Can you trust me?”

Nothing made sense. His wife back from the dead. Scared. Someone named Bennett was here. That must be the killer. The one he had been trying to trap. Only it had been Laney. And she wasn’t dead, so there wasn’t a killer. But then, someone had come after Sophie. And Laney was saying– He blinked, said, “Of course.”

“Hurry.” She grabbed his hand, their fingers lacing with easy habit; he could remember the way they slid together, but there was no time to savor it as she tugged him down the hall. The fluorescent lights a blur, his heart singing. They rounded the corner, stepped back into the market proper.

And directly in front of a man with a gun.

“Hello, kids,” the man said. “Miss me?”

Laney’s fingers tightened on his, hard enough that he could feel the fear humming in her skin.

“You look good for a dead woman, sister. You made a hell of a cleaning lady too.” The guy seemed relaxed, like he was chancing on old friends. His black shirt and pressed slacks, his neat hair and bland expression juxtaposed against the pistol to create a shattering dissonance. What had Sophie said? He was so calm. Smiling, always smiling. I think he could have done anything to me, and then gone on about his day. Not felt a thing about it.

“Bennett?” Daniel asked, knowing the answer.

“The one and only.” The man had his back to the patio area, gun held low and out of sight, and none of the hundreds of people behind him seemed to have a clue what he was doing. “Let me guess, I look different than you expected. Taller, and with a bigger cock.” He smiled, turned back to Laney. “Speaking of my cock, it’s nice to see you again, sister.”

“I’ll scream,” Laney said.

Bennett shrugged. “Go for it.”

She opened her mouth, hesitated.

“Thought not. You scream, maybe the man who comes to rescue you is a cop. And you don’t want to be talking to any police, do you?”

Daniel turned from one to the other. He felt like he was lagging behind the conversation. By the time he’d processed one set of words, the next had come and gone. It had to be a blackmail thing, he’d put that much together, but the way this guy was goading Laney, it seemed like he knew her personally. And what was she doing? Why not scream? “Why don’t we want to be talking to the police?”

Bennett laughed. “I love it. Why do you think, Dan?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sure you do—”

“No, I fucking don’t. But if you don’t stop pointing a gun at my wife, I’m going to . . .”

“What? You’re going to what? Kill me?”

“Stop it,” Laney said. “You can’t shoot us. If you do, you don’t get the necklace.”

“I don’t have to shoot both of you, sweetheart. For your next role, how about life as a widow?” The pistol swung half a degree to center on Daniel’s chest.

She stiffened. “No.”

Daniel wanted to act, to do something, but he didn’t know what. It had felt right to threaten Bennett, but jumping him would be suicide. The man may have been all smiles and ease, but the pistol was steady, and his finger was inside the trigger guard.

“I want what I’m owed, sister. Then we can all get on with our lives. I promise.”

“I remember what your word is worth.”

“Oh, snap,” Bennett said. “Ouch. I’m cut to the quick.” His smile could have curdled milk. “Let’s go. Back down the hallway.”

“I don’t think so.” Laney’s right hand blurred to her shirt and came out with a gun of her own.

What the fuck?

Bennett snickered. “You can’t shoot me, Laney. Any more than you could go to the police.”

“I’m not going to shoot you,” she said. “I’m going to put you in the spotlight.” Then his wife pointed the pistol skyward and pulled the trigger three times fast.

The crack of gunfire was unbelievably loud, setting his ears ringing. For a moment, nothing happened, just silence and the slipping smile on Bennett’s face.

Then the screaming began. Chaos hit as if God had flipped a switch, everyone lunging into motion at the same time. People threw themselves to their feet, upended tables, sent chairs clattering. Everyone went in different directions, tangling with one another as they searched for an exit or looked for the source of the gunfire. Dropped glasses shattered on the concrete, and somewhere someone shrieked, a high-pitched sound like steel on his teeth.

Laney’s hand grabbed his and yanked. “Run!” He caught a split-second look at Bennett’s face, fury and calculation mingling, the gun hand coming up, and then the pull of Laney’s momentum snapped him into motion. He started after her into the maelstrom, people shoving and shouting. Laney’s slim frame was no match for the chaos. He shook his hand free of hers and took the lead, lowering his shoulder and tightening his arm, bull-rushing a hole for them, adrenaline and panic powering their flight.

But even as he ran, his mind was racing faster. What the hell is going on?

5

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Bennett spun on his heel, took in the scene, mob mentality at its worst. Most people were trying to escape, but some would be coming this way, wannabe heroes and security guards, maybe even cops. Laney and Daniel took off, and instinct brought his pistol up, tracking their retreating backs. Ten feet, child’s play. One shot, two shot, red shot, blue shot.

Only morons play a losing hand. Killing them wouldn’t get him paid. But it might get him caught. He tucked the gun away. Laney and Daniel disappeared into the crowd, bobbing heads in a sea of frightened humanity.

You’ve gotten smarter, little girl. You’re not the wide-eyed kid I remember.

He turned and sprinted down the maintenance hallway.

5

They’d fought their way to the edge of the market, one of the gates in sight, the river of people now moving mostly in one direction. A woman fell, and Daniel bent to haul her to her feet before she was trampled. A man behind him shoved past, his knee connecting with Daniel’s shoulder as he rose, almost sending him tumbling. Daniel shoved him, then fought forward.

“This way!” Laney slid past, quicksilvering through the crowd. He followed, and then they were through the gate and into the western parking lot, a lane of cars backing onto Fairfax.

Laney turned to make sure he’d made it. The neck of her shirt was torn, and she’d lost the ball cap. She still held the gun in one hand, like she’d forgotten it was there.

“Put that away,” he said, and she looked startled, then hid it under her shirt.

“Let’s go.” She turned toward the north lot.

He grabbed her arm. “No. This way.”

“What? Why?”

“Just trust me.”

For a moment he thought she would argue, but she nodded again. They ran south, away from their cars, the space opening as people spread out. Hit Third at a sprint, the street a mess, cars spun the wrong direction, a collision in the center lane, running people scrambling over hoods and between bumpers, horns screaming. They darted across, came to a black wrought iron fence on the other side. “Come on,” he said, and cupped his hands for her. She stepped into them, grabbed the top, then jumped over. He followed, the metal digging into his stomach as he balanced and dropped.

They were in a huge apartment complex. It seemed strangely familiar, tall towers surrounded by town houses, the whole thing landscaped and organized. Curious children stared from the playground at the corner.

Laney was running again. The streets angled in spokes from the towers, every intersection looking the same, but she seemed to know her way, and he followed, panting now, his shoulder throbbing where he’d been kicked. After they had gone maybe half a mile, Laney slowed to a jog, then a walk. She didn’t even seem to be breathing hard. “I left my car back there,” she said.

“I know,” gasp, “me too.”