Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Daniel stared at the horizon. A thousand thoughts came and went. None of them stuck.

“I saw you on TV the other day. Quite a story.” Waters paused. “Funny you didn’t mention it when we spoke on the phone.”

“You mean when you told me you’d found her body?” The retort came fast and angry.

Waters shrugged. “There’s no law that a detective has to tell a suspect the truth.”

“Convenient.”

“It is, yes.” Waters spun so his legs were above the walkway, then dropped off the ledge. He slapped dust off his pants. “Look. We’re not going to come after you. Your wife isn’t dead, and you’re a media darling. You’re a very lucky man. If I were you, I would count my blessings. And be careful not to mess up what I had. Understand me?”

Daniel stared. Did he? Could the detective actually be telling him . . .

“I’m going back to work. You and Laney do the same.” The cop started away, turned back. “Like I said. A place with no memory.”

Daniel watched him go. His mind tracing the conversation, filling in the gaps. The cop knew about the man he’d killed. And if Waters knew about that, then he probably knew about Bennett, too. Two homicides. But he was letting them go.

On the other hand, maybe he was fishing, hoping that Daniel would reveal the murders himself. Only, Daniel had decided to confess, and the cop hadn’t given him a chance.

You’re missing the point.

It wasn’t what Bennett did to you that made killing him something you could live with. It was what he did to Sophie. That was his unforgivable sin. That justified your actions. When he murdered Sophie, Bennett put himself beyond morality.

Before, in the river basin, you were the one who went beyond morality. You were the monster. At least, that’s what you believed, and why you were willing to turn yourself in. You thought you had committed an unforgivable sin, that you had murdered an innocent man.

But you were wrong. Larry Morgan was as evil as Bennett.

You’ve spent the last weeks trying to become the man you were before. Problem is, that man is dead. You murdered him on a beach in Maine. And what you had rebuilt of him died again when you killed Bennett.

But only so that you could be resurrected.

Who you are now is up to you.

He turned, pushed himself away from the wall. Walked fast to the parking lot. Behind him, the city sparkled in the midday sun. The sky was cloudless and open.

Laney leaned on the front panel of the BMW. Watching for him. He smiled, walked straight to her without breaking stride, put his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. Kissed her like a free man.

“What did he say?”

“He said . . .” Daniel paused. “That I was reborn.”

“Huh?”

“He said it’s over.”

“Really?” She gave him a quizzical look.

“All of it.” He laughed, stepped away, sighed. Shook out his arms. He wanted to jump up and down and holler like a child. He wanted to howl and to cry. But he wanted something even more. “Let’s go to bed.”

“You got turned on talking to a detective?”

“I didn’t say anything about sex.” He smiled. “I’m going to sleep.”

5

From the privacy of the upper balcony, Roger Waters observed Daniel Hayes and Laney Thayer. Saw them kiss, heard the man laugh. Watched as they got back in their expensive car and rolled the windows down. The last he saw of them, Daniel had his arm out the window, rolling like he didn’t have a care in the world.

They bought it. His little fiction had worked. Good. With Hayes’s conscience taken care of, the chance he’d come forward and confess to the murder was zilch. Who would give up the good life, the movie star wife and the house in Malibu, to get justice for a pedophile crack-dealing pimp? That would take a breed of asshole Waters didn’t know, and he had a pretty good catalog on assholes.

The fact that none of it was true, well, Hayes never needed to know that.

There’s no trail now. They’ll keep quiet. No silly martyrdom. No naïve attempts to clear the slate. They’ll keep quiet and count their blessings.

Which means there’s nothing to connect you to Sophie Zeigler.

His stomach roiled at that. If only he’d known what Bennett had in mind when he got that address.

Didn’t you? On some level?

It didn’t matter. Now he was clear. If Daniel had come forward, the whole story would have come out, all of it, and they would have used Sophie Zeigler’s murder as a justification for shooting Bennett. Which would have raised questions about how that fucker had found her.

Now there was nothing to tie Waters to her death.

Well, one thing. But he’d taken care of it.

T

he light out the window was very bright. It seemed like the air was shimmering. There was a tree, a stunted sort of thing, spiny and awkward. Birds perched there, their song just audible through the glass.

The room was plain but clean. A thin plastic curtain screened the view of the hall. Fans in the machines hummed.

Somewhere out of sight, someone said something in Spanish, and someone else laughed.

The man in the bed stared at the ceiling tiles. The world had a Demerol fog to it. Thoughts were disconnected and lazy, drifting in and out, mingling as they chose.

How had he gotten here? He could almost remember, almost . . .

A guy in green scrubs stepped into his room, pulling the curtain aside brusquely. He had dark circles under his eyes and a five o’clock shadow. Too tired to be a doctor, too smug to be a nurse. A resident. The resident began checking the IV tubes, the level of fluid in the bag.

The man in the bed ignored him, chased the memory. It cleared a bit at a time, layers of tissue paper stripped away.

He remembered a voice. A man’s voice.

You just won’t fucking die, will you?

And something else. What? Something about fingers. And . . . angels?

It was important. Fingernails, fingers do the walking, fingerpicking—

Fingerprints.

I’ve got your fingerprints and your DNA and pictures of you. Another layer of tissue paper tore away, revealing the face. Detective Roger Waters. His lips tight. The skin of his nose shiny. You may own me, but now I own you too.

I get you across the border, we’re done. You don’t bother them or me ever again.

Los Angeles is off your fucking map, you hear me? Forever.

Ahh. Yes. That made sense.

“Buenas tardes,” the resident said, as if he’d just noticed there was a person in the bed. “How are you feeling?”

The man in the bed blinked away the memory, took in the resident’s face. Dark skin and dark hair. A good-looking guy, but there was something off about him. Not just the air of exhaustion, or the accented English. Something else.

His pupils. They were dilated.

Dilated pupils meant speed.

Dilated pupils on a resident meant someone was raiding the medical supply cabinet.

Interesting.

“¿Señor?” The resident cocked his head. “You are awake?” His voice quick and pinched.

“Oh yes, brother.” The man in the bed smiled. “I’m awake.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I’m indebted to a number of people for this book. My deepest thanks to:

My agent Scott Miller, the man.

My editor Ben Sevier, who improves everything he touches.

The whole team at Dutton/NAL, especially Brian Tart, Sandra Harding, Christine Ball, Amanda Walker, Rich Hasselberger, Melissa Miller, Carrie Swetonic, and Jessica Horvath.

Dr. Cooper Bart Holmes and Dr. Gene Mindel for patiently sharing their expertise on dissociative fugue states.

My buddies Brett Battles and Gregg Hurwitz, who generously served as Los Angeles tour guides.

Mike Biller, who steered me right on MRI technology while also suggesting I get my own head examined.

Officer Jason Jacobson for schooling me on Tasers and catching a dozen firearms problems.

Phil Wang, formerly of the LASD, who helped me get my Sheriff’s Department facts straight.

Dana Kaye, my Maggie and more.

Sarah Self, the queen of Hollywood.

Gillian Flynn, Blake Crouch, Michael Cook, Tommy Heffron, and Alison Janssen, for their early reads and generous feedback.

Joe Konrath, who twice saved my butt on this one.

390 Acknowledgments

Sean Chercover, my creative partner and road dog. The booksellers and librarians—we love you.

Mom, Dad, and Matt, without whom I’d be lost.

And especially my wife g.g. Always, and for more reasons than

I have paper.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Marcus Sakey is the bestselling author of four previous novels, three of which are in development as films. His fiction has been nominated for or won an Anthony, Barry, Macavity, Strand Critic’s Circle, Reader’s Choice, Crimespree, Dilys, Crime Shot, Romantic Times, and ITW Thriller Award. He lives in Chicago with his wife. Visit his Web site at MarcusSakey.com, or follow him on Facebook and Twitter, where he posts under the clever handle @MarcusSakey.

Table of Contents

ACT TWO, PART ONE

ACT TWO, PART TWO