Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

“Where is he?”

“He said not to chitchat, just to get the—”

He stepped forward, grabbed her wrist. “Where is he!”

She tried to pull away, but he gripped harder. “Ow! Let me go!”

The father of the happy tourist family caught her tone, looked Daniel’s way. He grit his teeth, opened his fingers, and she snatched her arm back, massaged it with her other hand. “Asshole.”

“Listen,” he said, wanting to grab her tiny body and dangle her over the railing until she gave him what he needed. “I don’t know what Bennett told you. But he’s coming after my family. My wife. He’s trying to kill us.”

The woman’s eyes darted. “I don’t know anything about that. He just– I owed him, and he told me to come get this bag. He said you were trying to play him, and he was going to take care of something while I talked to you.”

What does that mean? “I’m sorry about before. I am. But please, I’m begging you. Tell me where he is.” Take care of something while she talked to me . . .

“Look, I told you, he just—”

. . . while she kept me busy.

Oh, fuck!

Daniel turned on his heel and sprinted down the pier, left the woman yelling after him. His sneakers pounded on the dry wood, a childhood sound. He threw himself forward, arms flying, breath coming fast. Visions of horror splashing across the back of his retina. Of finding their borrowed car empty. Worse. Finding her in it. Really dead this time, eyes empty and staring.

“Move!” Daniel shoved through a row of giggling high school girls, knocked an ice cream cone flying. Behind him curses rose in two languages. He dodged around a bicycle, then ran for the edge of the pier. Grabbed the railing and vaulted it, dropping the ten feet to sandy beach. Hit with a ring of distant pain in his ankles and the front of his shins, but he didn’t fall, just leaned into his run, pushing for the parking lot where they’d agreed to meet. The parking lot where Laney had been left alone, where Bennett could have come at her from any direction. Jesus, how had he been so stupid, how had he let this guy outthink and outplan him, and then his feet hit concrete, and he pushed for the far end, where he saw Robert’s silver PT Cruiser parked, the sunlight off the windshield hiding anything—

The driver’s side door opened, and Laney stepped out. She squinted into the sun, held one hand over her eyes.

Daniel covered the distance between them in seconds, threw his arms around her, crushed her to his chest, feeling the sun-warmed heat of her body, her hair against his nose, the bird lattice of her rib cage.

“Are you okay?” she asked into his chest.

“It was someone else. Bastard sent someone else.”

“I know, I heard. Then it was all static, and I saw you running . . .”

Daniel laughed a syllable’s worth at himself. “The phone. I didn’t even think of it. I was so scared, I just had to get here.” He pulled it from his pocket, hung up the call. “I screwed it all up, baby.”

“It’s not your fault. He’s very good.”

Her tone irked him. “Is there a fan club?”

“Don’t be an idiot.”

Before he could reply, Daniel’s cell phone rang. He glanced at the display and picked up. “Sophie, now isn’t a—”

“You know why television is so predictable?”

The voice wasn’t Sophie’s. The world slipped and spun, palm trees going sideways as his knees went weak.

“Television is predictable because it’s written by guys like you.”

“I swear to god,” Daniel blurted, “if you—”

“ ‘—hurt her, I’ll kill you.’ See what I mean? I don’t even need you for this conversation. I may as well be talking to myself. In fact, I think I will. ‘Gosh, self. Do you think it’s a wise idea to fuck around?’ ‘You know what, self? I don’t think that’s smart at all. I think I should just pay the man. Otherwise, who knows what he’ll do.’ ”

“Bennett—”

“Seems you still don’t get the point. So let me underscore it. Denslow and Levering.”

“What? I don’t—”

“Be talking at you.”

“No, wait, Bennett, please, I’m sorry, we’ll—”

The line went dead. Daniel stood in the parking lot under the darkening sky, his mouth open, a silent phone to his ear. From the pier he could hear the sound of laughter. The air smelled like corn dogs and exhaust.

“Honey?” Laney looked across the Cruiser at him, her eyes wide. She rocked back and forth like a wobbling doll. “What happened?”

Daniel lowered the phone. Made himself swallow. His throat like sandpaper. A snatch of music came from somewhere. “Sophie,” he said. “He found Sophie.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

“What did– Did you talk to her? Is she . . .” Laney trailed off.

He shook his head. His mind whizzed and whirled in conflicting directions. He had to help Sophie. He had to call the police. It was a trap. It didn’t matter. She was dead. She might need help. “Denslow and Levering. He said Denslow and Levering. I don’t know where that is. Do you?”

Laney paled. “By UCLA. It’s where Charles lives.”

“Who?”

“Charles. The man Sophie’s seeing. He’s a law professor. We went over there for dinner a month ago.”

Of course. It made sense. Where would Sophie go on a moment’s notice? Somewhere that seemed safe. Not her office, not a hotel. Her boyfriend’s house.

And somehow Bennett had found out where he lived. “We have to go.”

“Wait. What if Bennett is—”

“I don’t care.” He circled the car, held out his hand. “I’ll drive.”

“This could be a trap.”

“You think I don’t know that?” His face felt rubbery, his hands wooden. “We can’t just leave her.”

For a moment, he thought Laney was going to argue. Then she dropped the keys in his hand. “Let’s go.”

5

The two-mile drive took forever. He avoided the highway, kept to back streets, Laney throwing out directions when he wasn’t certain. Rush hour, and the streets were snarled with L.A.’s famous traffic. A sea of brake lights in every direction. The ride was a nightmare of stop and go. He cut through parking lots, sped around cars, ran yellows and soft reds. Horns shrieked and lights flashed and he didn’t give a damn.

This is your fault.

He’d underestimated Bennett. Even after everything Laney had told him, Daniel had forgotten that the man stayed in the shadows, that he preferred end runs to charges down the middle. That he would never just walk into a situation someone else controlled. He would redirect it. Find leverage.

Blood on your hands, Daniel. Blood on your soul.

It was twilight by the time they made it. On the surface, the neighborhood seemed idyllic. Beautiful homes, beautiful trees, beautiful people walking beautiful dogs. They made it to Levering first, followed the winding curves up to the intersection.

“That one.” Laney gestured to a Spanish-style house set back from the corner. She looked around. “It doesn’t look like anything’s happened.”

“Maybe he was bluffing.”

She bit her lip, didn’t respond.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I’m thinking it too. But if she’s in there, and she needs help . . .”

“What do you want to do?”

He looked over. “Your gun.”

“Your gun.” She pulled it out. “Here.”

It had been three thousand miles and another life since the Glock he’d found in the glove box. But it felt just as good, just as right, to take the Sig Sauer in his hand. He ejected the round from the chamber, popped the magazine, reinserted the round, racked the slide, switched the safety off.

Look at you. But then, you probably learned for your writing. Probably fired off hundreds of rounds—at paper targets.

“Okay. Wait here.”

“What?”

“If there’s any problem, call the police.”

She shook her head. “No way. This is not a woolly mammoth situation.”

“Laney—”

She pushed open the passenger door and started down the sidewalk. Grimacing, he followed. The thrum of traffic sounded from the 405 to the west. Somewhere, someone started a leaf blower. His heart banged two beats for every footstep.

Laney started up the front path. He thought of arguing, couldn’t see a better way. If Bennett was here, there would be no safe or secret way in. And no time to waste.

Daniel reached for the front, twisted the handle. Unlocked. Holding his gun low and out, he pushed open the door.

The hallway was dark. He didn’t wait for his eyes to adjust, just went in before Laney could, the gun held in front of him. Trying to remember every maneuver he’d ever seen on a cop show. Stay calm. Don’t shoot just because something moves.

His breath sounded loud. Laney stepped in behind him, shut the door. The click of the latch made him jump. He took a step, and then another. The place seemed familiar, though he couldn’t remember how.

A clatter came from down the hall.

Daniel was running before he realized it, charging past the staircase, through the living room, gun up and sweeping, vision blurring. Light fell through an archway. The room beyond had a tile floor, and he saw a baker’s rack with an array of pans. There was another sound, something he couldn’t place, and he spun around the corner, staying low, praying for he didn’t know what, that she would be okay, that Bennett would appear in his sights, that—

The first thing he saw was the cat. It was tubby and mottled orange and sitting on the counter. A container of cooking tools had been knocked over beside it, and the cat was swatting at a spatula.

The second thing he saw was Sophie. On her back on the kitchen table. Her arms hung on either side. Her empty eyes were open.

“No.” His hands started to shake. With the quiet, mechanical processing of shock, he saw the neat round hole in her forehead, and the gore spattered on the table. “No.”

Laney came up behind him. She gasped, hands flying to her face.

A man sat at the head of the table. His hair was gray, his face weathered. Duct tape lashed him to the chair. Deep cuts on his arms split the skin in red tears. Muscle and fat bulged through like fabric from an overstuffed cushion.

Laney whimpered. “Oh god.”

Daniel stared. The writer in him put the scene together. Bennett making Sophie watch as he tortured her lover. Asking questions. Telling her that it would all end if she told him what he wanted to know. If she told him where a half-million-dollar necklace was hidden.

Asking questions she didn’t know the answer to.

Laney came up behind him, buried her face in his back. He could feel her warmth, and the hectic beat of her heart. The vibrating ring of his cell phone hit like electric shock. He scrabbled back, slapping at his pocket with one hand, pulled the cell phone free. “Motherfucker. You evil motherfucker.”

“This is on you, Daniel.”

Bile spilled up his throat. “I swear to god—”

“Oh, stop. All you had to do was pay me.”

“I will never fucking give you—”

“Then I’ll visit someone else. Maybe Laney’s buddy. Robert Cameron. After all, he was nice enough to loan you his car.”

Daniel straightened, pushed away from Laney. How did Bennett know—

“A PT Cruiser, interesting choice for an actor. Distinctive, I guess, but a little pedestrian.”

Adrenaline dumped into his bloodstream. He shoved Laney back from the archway, sprinted to the living room, phone in one hand, gun in the other. Easing around the edge of the window, Daniel peered out. The porch was empty. So was the lawn and the front walk.

There was a silver Jaguar across the street. As his eyes fell on it, the dome light snapped on. The interior of the car glowed against the purple light of evening. Bennett lounged behind the wheel. He raised one hand. His lips moved, and a fraction of a second later, Daniel heard his voice through the phone. “Hi.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. Took a step back, raised the pistol.

“Tricky one,” Bennett said. “Thirty yards with a sidearm through two panes of glass. And you’re firing one-handed. Plus . . .” The dome light snapped off, and darkness washed the interior of the Jaguar. “Now you can’t even see your target. What do you say, Daniel? Want to try for a lucky shot?”

He stared down the barrel, aimed square at the place Bennett’s head had been. He could do this. He knew he could. His hands were steady, his aim sure.

Do it. Now!

His finger wouldn’t move.

“On the other hand, I’ve got my pistol propped on the seat and aimed with both hands. What do you think, Sundance? Want to bet which of us hits? Want to guess what happens to your lovely bride afterwards?”

A shiver curled inside him as a vision of Laney in Sophie’s place flashed into his imagination. The car swam between the sights. Daniel lowered the gun, stepped away from the window. “We don’t have the necklace with us. If you kill us, you get nothing.”

“I know that. Why do you think I’m not inside?”

A terrible revelation seized him. “You killed her as a lesson.”

“That’s right. And you’ve got other friends. This isn’t a boxing match. We’re not going to fight fair. You try to screw me again and maybe it will be Robert Cameron tied to a chair and whimpering like a Girl Scout. You go to the police, and while they’re working on you, I’ll be working on Laney. No one can protect you. There is no safe place to hide. Do you understand?”

Daniel closed his eyes. The broken body of his friend stared at him from the darkness behind his lids. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“I understand.”

“Now, I believe that you don’t have the necklace with you. You hid it somewhere. Go get it. Or tomorrow I visit another of your friends.” The line went dead. A moment later, an engine revved. Daniel stepped back in front of the window, watched the Jag pull away. He squinted, caught the license plate, 5BBM299. Of course, it’s not his any more than the one on the BMW is yours.

“Daniel?”

He turned. Laney was framed in the archway, silhouetted by the kitchen light.

“He’s gone.” But not far. Never far. It took him two tries to lock the safety on the Sig Sauer. His fingers were carved out of wood. His legs were heavy. Numb. “He said that we have to get him the necklace. That he would come after Robert if we don’t, and others. I should have—there was a second there, where I could have—why didn’t I shoot him?”

“Stop.” Laney stepped forward, wrapped her arms around him. He stiffened. Didn’t want to be touched, didn’t want comfort. Didn’t deserve it. A beautiful person, a beautiful friend, gone. Her last moments horror. Because of him.

The sob took him by surprise, seemed to break from somewhere deep inside. Laney reached up to stroke his neck. He struggled. “Let me—”

“Stop, baby.” She seemed to be wrapping her whole self around him. “Stop.”

He squeezed his eyes closed hard enough to see stars and spots. They almost blurred out the vision of Sophie. His body shook, his chest heaved. The sounds he made weren’t quite crying. More like grunting, an animal sound. No tears came. Just ragged heaves of pain.

“Shhh. Shhh.” She pressed against him, primal in her comfort.

He didn’t know how long they stood like that, while the world outside darkened and the pistol he hadn’t fired dug into his belly and Sophie . . .

Finally, he took a deep breath. Patted Laney’s back. He pulled away, and this time she let him.

Daniel rolled his shoulders, shook his head. He had a flash of Sophie in her kitchen, washing the coffee mugs, talking over her shoulder. The ease of that moment, the familiarity. She had been the first person to touch him. The hug she had given him this morning– my god, only this morning?—had brought him back from the dead.

He took a deep breath, then opened his cell phone.

“Who are you calling?”

“911.”

“What?”

Daniel pressed send, raised the phone to his ear, turned to look out the window. Be calm, but specific. Give them the address. Tell them there’s been a murder—

His hand was yanked away from his ear. He spun, surprised, but Laney had a grip on the phone, managed to tug it free. Immediately she snapped it shut. He stared at her. “What the hell?”

“Let’s just think for a minute, okay?”

“Think about what? Sophie’s dead. He killed her. Tortured her. We have to call the police.”

“And tell them what? That we broke into her house and found her dead? How’s that going to look? They already believe you’re a killer.”

“Yeah, but I’m not, remember? And why would either of us hurt Sophie or her boyfriend?”

Laney shook her head, slipped his phone into her pocket. “No police, baby. We can’t.”

“Why not?”

She didn’t answer immediately. Just raised her hands and ran them through her hair. “It won’t solve anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You said he threatened Robert, right?”

“Yeah, but . . .” Daniel spread his hands. “Look, it’s different than before. He killed Sophie. And her boyfriend. The police will go after him now. And if we tell them everything, there’s no reason for him to hurt Robert.”

“What if he doesn’t need a reason?”

“So we’ll have Robert come with us. He’ll be safe while we—”

“Listen to me.” She stepped forward, took his hands in hers. Her gaze was steady, those hypnotic blue eyes locked on his. “We can’t go to the police.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. I know why you want to call them, I do, and I wish we could, but we can’t.”

“Why—”

“I know how confusing this must all be. I can’t imagine how scared you are. I’m scared, and I do remember my life. But we can’t go to the police.”

He opened his mouth to argue. Yes, things looked bad, but who would really believe they would murder Sophie?

On the other hand, what did going to the police accomplish? There still wasn’t much to point them to Bennett. The man was careful, would surely have worn gloves, collected his spent bullet casings. Besides, even if by some miracle the police did catch him, it would lead only to a trial and—maybe—jail. What kind of end was that? A cage wasn’t enough. He wanted Bennett dead. Dead for all the things he’d done to Laney before they even met, and for every obscenity he’d wreaked on their lives since, and most especially for Sophie. Daniel was a writer, and he believed in the justice of a story, and the only ending that fit was Bennett’s death.

But before he could say a word, before he could argue with Laney or agree with her, a terrible thought flashed across his mind. What if she didn’t want him to go to the police, not because of what Bennett would do, but for some other reason?

What if there was more going on here than he knew?

“Please, baby. I love you. And I need you.” His wife stared up with eyes wide and soft. Her hands were warm against his. He could smell a hint of citrus, her shampoo, and it smelled wonderful. “Can you trust me?”

I don’t know.

God help me.

I don’t know.

T

he plane shook the world.

This close to LAX, every 747 on a westbound approach was a streak of white he could almost touch. Each started with a subsonic tingle in Daniel’s deep belly, then a rumble that became a roar, and out the window the plane would to come to ground like a long aluminum duck, landing lights bright, the blur of superheated air through the engines making the moon wobble.

Eleven o’clock in another shitty motel, one of those long-stay places for C-list businessmen. The “kitchen” was a microwave atop a mini-fridge. The flowered bedspread wilted. A stink of cigarettes rose from the sofa. Out the window was a parking lot hemmed in by the 405. A steady stream of head– and taillights rolled in each direction, people with places to go, safe warm homes waiting for them. On the other side was a billboard for a movie, Die Today, with a glowering actor pointing a gun at him.

He was Sophie’s client. Daniel raised the disposable plastic cup, took another swallow of bourbon.

“It’s not your fault,” Laney said from behind him, as if she could read his mind.

He didn’t respond. She had taken his silence as guilt over Sophie, and of course, she was right—blood on your hands, Daniel; blood on your soul—but the truth was more complicated. His head was a tangle of contradictory thoughts, of half-formed plans and animal urges. Of white-hot hate for a man he barely knew. Of fear of the police, and of Bennett, and of whatever fresh horror tomorrow might bring.

But worst of all, the terrible question. Could he trust her?

If he couldn’t, he was lost. She was the home he had brought himself back to. She was the keeper of their mutual story, the only person in the world who truly knew what they had been to each other. Until his memory came back—if it did—the only truth was the one she told.

Besides, what reason did he have to think he couldn’t? Just the fact that she didn’t want to go to the police. Even if he didn’t fully agree with her thinking, it was a big leap to deceit. To read too deep into her hesitation was like walking into a party just as people started laughing, and assuming the laughter was aimed at him. There was no evidence.

It’s more than that, you asshole. She so haunted you that before you knew your name, you knew to look for her. She hates violence, but when she thought you were in danger she grabbed a gun and chased a murderer. Her feet are always cold and your chin snugs perfectly into the curve of her shoulder and she moves her lips when she’s reading a script and, in short, you love her.

So stop it. Stop letting exhaustion and fear make you paranoid. You are who you choose to be.

Tired. He was so tired. He took another sip of bourbon.

“Won’t you talk to me?”

He turned, leaned against the window. Laney sat on the edge of the bed, hands between her knees. Her face was pale and drawn.

“I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just thinking.” He shook his head. “I still can’t remember her. You’d think that would have made it hurt less.”

“Why? You loved her. Like I said, there are things we do that we can’t change. Love is one of them.”

“Is it?” Yes, he realized. It was. What had he said earlier? Memories are stories we tell ourselves to explain how we got where we are. “I guess you’re right. I just . . . I owe it to her to remember her, and I don’t.”

Laney was silent for a moment. Then she leaned back on her elbows. “Do you remember Bernie?”

He shook his head.

“A couple of years ago Sophie was working in her garden, and this puppy came up to her. She didn’t like dogs. Something had happened to her as a kid, I think. Anyway, she shooed him away. Five minutes later, there he is again. Just sitting there. She chased him off again; five minutes later he’s back. That’s why she started calling him Bernie—same as her ex-husband, he was hard to get rid of. He was a husky. He was going to be huge, you could just tell, and he had this enormously fluffy white coat. I mean, he was supposed to be pulling sleds in Alaska, you know? And here he was roasting in Los Angeles.” Laney shook her head.

“Anyway, Sophie finishes, goes inside, makes herself a sandwich. Only, Bernie just climbs up on her porch and flops down in the shade. And Sophie being Sophie, even though she doesn’t like dogs, she goes back out, looks more closely. He doesn’t have a collar on. And he’s got scars, places where the fur is missing or lopsided. He’d been mistreated, or maybe just had to fight, but she can’t let that go. So she opens the door, gives him water and the rest of her sandwich. Lets him fall asleep on her couch.”

“She adopted him?”

Laney laughed. “No, she posted signs looking for his owner. Called her neighbors. But nobody knew the story. He’s a stray. He could be dangerous. They have children. People tell her to call the pound.”

Daniel thought he saw where it was going. “But she won’t. She may not like dogs, but she likes strays.”

“Uh-huh. She couldn’t stand to imagine him rotting in a cage, waiting to be put down. So she puts an ad in the paper. ‘Puppy looking for good home.’ ”

“That’s nice.”

“I’m not finished. She gets all kinds of calls. But somehow she can’t do it, won’t go through with it. Something about just passing him off, it bugged her. So she puts another ad in the paper. ‘Purebred husky, smart, loyal, four hundred dollars.’ ”

“She sold him?”

“Only after she’d gotten three people interested, played them against each other, and raised the price to six hundred.”

In spite of everything, Daniel laughed. “You’re kidding me.”

“Nope. See, the way Sophie looked at things, if she’d given him away, he would always be a stray. This way he was something special. Plus she used the money to throw a dinner party. BernieFest.”

Daniel smiled, rubbed his eyes. His belly ticked with the approach of another plane. He thought of sitting at Sophie’s table, sipping coffee. Of the way she wouldn’t let him talk. Those photos on the wall, her life in pictures. None of those versions of her earlier self could have imagined what was to come for her. The plane roared overhead.

“Stop it,” she said.

“Huh?” He looked up, surprised.

“You’re blaming yourself.”

“How did you—”

“Because I know you. You’re sitting there thinking it’s your fault.”

“It is my fault.”

“No, you egotistical ass. It’s not. You didn’t hurt her. Bennett did. You didn’t kill her. Bennett did.”

“Yeah, but—”

“And if I really had gone over that cliff, that wouldn’t have been your fault either. If anyone is to blame, it’s me. Bennett came for me, not you.”

“Yeah—”

“But maybe that’s not far enough back. Maybe the jerks I was with in high school are to blame, for making me think that was how boys treated girls. Maybe Marlon Brando is to blame, for teaching girls to like guys who ride motorcycles. Maybe my parents are to blame for conceiving me.”

“Come on. I came up with that stupid plan that got her killed.”

“No. You called her and told her to run. It’s not your fault that he found her. And you still don’t get Bennett. He was going to kill her regardless. That’s how he stays alive. No one knows anything about him. He doesn’t trust anyone. It’s just Bennett, self-contained and all alone. Sophie knew too much.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“How soon after you left the pier did your cell phone ring?”

“I don’t know, maybe two minutes—” He caught her line of thinking.

“You see? She was already gone.” Laney leaned forward. “You’re a good man and a smart guy. But just because you see life as scenes in a story doesn’t mean you’re responsible for how everything works out. You don’t write the goddamn world.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.

She slid back on the bed, patted a space beside her. “Come here.”

Daniel set his cup on the windowsill, walked across the room. He kicked off his shoes, then lay down beside her. She leaned back, her head nestling in his chest, her arm across him. His nose was buried in her hair, and he could smell her skin, the clean scent of soap from her bubble bath. She yawned, burrowed closer. They lay still. It should have been wonderful, a sanctuary. Everything he thought he had lost, returned to him. But his brain wouldn’t let him enjoy it. When he closed his eyes, he saw Sophie’s face. When he opened them again, the bare drop ceiling stared hopelessly back.

Into his chest, she said, “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Daniel stroked her hair, a gesture so familiar he knew he must have done it a thousand times.

“Everything. All of this.”

“It’s not . . . You didn’t know. You were a kid. He’s to blame, not you.”

“I know. But still.” Her head rose and fell with his breath. “What do we do now?”

“I’m not sure.”

“If we can figure out where the necklace is—”

“No.” He cracked the word. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we can’t go to the police. But I’m not paying him. Not after what he did to her.”

“But if we don’t, he’ll keep hurting people.”

She was right. They were trapped. Every road led to hell. The only question was how direct a route.

His eyes were dry and raw, and his head throbbed with every beat of his heart. His whole self ached. To have lost and gained and stand poised to lose so much again, all in the space of such a short time. To discover that the distant past could shatter the present. A mistake Laney had made before Daniel had even met her. Before they had started to forge all the memories he had since lost.

Outside the windows, the traffic moved down the freeway, steady and implacable as waves on a beach. A rap star pretending to be an actor pretending to be a gangster aimed false menace down from a bright billboard, while real evil lurked in the shadows, only attacking where they were weak. His own past played hide-andseek, while their future raced toward them like an express train off

the rails.

It’s not about who you were, or what you can remember. It’s

about who you are. Who you choose to be, and what you decide

to do.

“I’m scared,” she said, in a voice so soft it tore through him. “Me too. But sleep now. We’ll figure it out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know.”

He stroked her hair until he heard her breath steady and her

muscles relax. Then he slipped his arm free, took the gun out. His

fingers tapped the grip as he stared at the ceiling.

How did you beat a man who anticipated your every move? Who

would never face you directly? A man who survived by being invisible, who had no weaknesses to lean on, and so was free to lean on

yours?

And especially, how did an actress and a writer do it? He thought

back to Laney’s rebuke, telling him that he didn’t write the world.

The words had been meant as a comfort, but now they stung. If he

did, he knew the ending he’d write for that fucker.

They couldn’t get help. They couldn’t pay him off. They couldn’t

run and hide.

What does that leave?

ACT THREE

“I have memories—but only a fool stores his past in the future.”

–David Gerrold

“W

e have to kill him.”

Laney heard the words but didn’t really process them. Half-awake for a while, she’d been hiding in that hazy dream realm where everything ended before it got too bad. They said you never died in a dream, and she couldn’t remember that she had, though often enough she’d been about to when she woke up. “What?”

“We have to kill him.”

Apparently she’d heard correctly. She blinked, sat up. The left side of the curtains were closed, submerging her half of the room in murky shadow. The other side was burning with morning sky, silhouetting Daniel. His hair stuck up in wild spiky directions. He had the gun in his hand.

“Did you sleep?”

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was gluey, her brain and body stiff. “I heard

you.”

“It’s the only way. We can’t run, we can’t hide, we can’t get help.

So we have to kill him. Then it all goes away.”

“Okay.” She pointed her fingers like a gun, sighted out the window. “Pow. He’s dead.”

“I’m serious.”

“I need coffee.”