Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"

Автор книги: Marcus Sakey

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Bennett smiled at the woman as she clawed at the wall for balance, her eyes going wide, breath gasping in. “Sophie. Really. Don’t.”

Her mouth fish-gawped, and he could see her thinking about screaming anyway, knowing she could get a shout off before he could stop her. Then, as her rational mind came into it, realizing that he knew her name, that this wasn’t a random break-in. That he had an agenda.

Which was the moment fear really bloodied its claws. “So,” Bennett said conversationally, “I was involved in this thing in Chicago that went badly.” He kept his eyes on hers, didn’t give her a second to look away. “I know. Who cares, right? Reason I bring it up is simple. My back is to the wall here. And since you spend a lot of time negotiating, I thought I’d make sure you understood that. You know what it means when someone’s back is to the wall?”

Bennett had broken in an hour ago, and had stood watching her sleep, the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips were slightly parted. He’d thought about sitting at the end of her bed and waiting for her to wake up, but he wanted her clearheaded as well as vulnerable, so instead he’d gone into the kitchen, made a cup of coffee, and sat at her breakfast nook drinking it and waiting for her to get in the shower. It was all about theater in his line of work.

“Sophie? Do you know what that means?”

Her chin quivered, and it took her a moment to find her voice. “It means all options are on the table.”

“Close.” He rubbed his hands together so that she could see the white surgical gloves he wore. Her eyes shivered with images of blood and gleaming steel knives. “It means there are no constraints. Do you see the difference?”

She swallowed, nodded slowly. Her arms had settled at her sides, which he liked. Only very stupid people worried about modesty when he came calling. “I understand.”

“Good.” He pulled a towel off the bar, held it out to her. Basic technique to establish a power dynamic, kick a dog and then scratch his ears. Alpha had control; beta gratefully accepted what was given.

She hesitated. If someone had tried this in the boardroom, no doubt she would have fed them their teeth. But you aren’t in the boardroom, sister.

Sophie took the towel, wrapped it around herself.

“Now. I’m going to ask some questions. The smartest thing you can do is answer me. You do that, I won’t hurt you. You’ve got my word.” He gave her his best schoolboy smile.

“Okay.”

“Where is Daniel Hayes?”

Her mouth fell open again. “This is—I don’t understand.”

“Daniel Hayes. Your client and friend, the one you half-adopted when he was still living in a tower at Park LaBrea. Five-eleven, one eighty, likes piña coladas and walks in the rain?”

“Is he okay? What did you do to him?”

Bennett paused, stared for a long time. Then he said, quietly, “You know, you’re still a beautiful woman, Sophie.”

Her knees almost gave, and a whimpering sound came from deep in her throat. “I don’t know where Daniel is. I haven’t spoken to him since he left.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

“About a week ago.”

“What did you talk about?”

“I can’t discuss it.”

Bennett laughed, honestly delighted. “Really?”

“It’s confidential.”

“Attorney-client privilege?”

“Well, technically—”

“Let’s try again.” He slid the Colt from his waistband. “What did Hayes say when he called you?”

She hesitated a moment, then said. “He was drunk. Crying. He sounded terrible.”

“I would imagine. What did he say?”

“Nothing that made any sense.” For the first time, she broke eye contact. “That he was sorry.”

“He say what for”

“No. Just that it was his fault, he was so sorry. He was slurring a lot, not making any sense.”

“Who does he know in Maine?”

“What?”

“Daniel. Maine. Who does he know?”

“I—I don’t know. No one.”

“Where is he hiding?”

“I don’t know. What do you want with him anyway?”

“Do you watch a lot of movies, Sophie?”

“What?”

“I know you represent actors, directors, so you must. You know the scenes where the hero is trying not to tell the bad guys something? Mel Gibson kind of shit? Everyone likes to think that if it was them, they’d hold out. Dig deep, clench their jaw, not say a word. But here’s the thing.” Bennett leaned forward. “Pain sucks. It sucks worse than you can imagine. It becomes your whole world.” He tapped the pistol against his thigh. “I don’t enjoy it. But believe me, when pain is involved, real pain? No one holds out.”

An effective performance, judging by her reaction. He could see her wondering how he would hurt her, whether it would be rape or something worse. Wondering what she would be afterward, if there was an afterward; all those years of independence wiped away, her freedom caged, loves tainted, triumphs turned to ash. Sixty-one years old and abruptly broken. A victim.

Remember, sister. This isn’t the boardroom.

“I-I don’t know anyone in Maine.”

“Think hard.”

“I am. I don’t know anyone. I don’t think Daniel does either.”

“Family, friends?”

“No.”

“Then why is he there?”

“I– Is he?”

Try something new. “What about the necklace?”

“What necklace?”

“I know you have it. Where is it?” Chances were she didn’t, of course, but no need for her to know that.

“What?” The panic was back. “I don’t—I swear—I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about.”

Damn. She was telling the truth. There were all kinds of tics when someone was lying. But her blinking was controlled, the emotions in her eyes and mouth matched, she was using contractions. She’d been thrown by the changes in subject, when liars usually embraced them. He’d bet on it: Sophie didn’t know where Bennett’s payment was, or where he could find Daniel Hayes.

Damn it.

He could always ask more aggressively. But it was risky after the mess in Chicago. That had been a dangerous play from the beginning, but no one could have anticipated the way it would fall apart, the four fucking amateurs getting in the middle of what should have been a clean job. Worse, given the nature of the product, he’d found himself burned completely. A lifetime of staying off the radar wiped away in a week. And not just cops. Homeland Security. They’d have fingerprints, DNA, brass from his old Smith and Wesson, who knew what else.

Which meant that any screwup, any screwup at all, and he was done. Not maximum security done. Not even federal prison done. Twenty-three hours in solitary done. SuperMax done. Hell, maybe Guantánamo Bay done.

Does she know anything worth taking that risk?

His gut told him no. Still, no harm in pushing a little. “You’re not helping me,” he said, soft and low.

Her hands fluttered at her side. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”

“What can you tell me?”

“The same thing I told the sheriffs. That I love Daniel, but that I don’t know why he left or where he is. He called me, I told him I’d be right over, but when I got there, he was gone. Since then I’ve dialed his cell phone a million times. I’ve e-mailed him. I’ve called all our friends. I’ve talked to the cops. No one knows where he is. You say he’s in Maine? That’s news to me. I believe you when you say that you’ll hurt me,” her voice catching for just a second, “but it won’t make any difference. Because I don’t fucking know where he fucking is.”

Bennett was coming to like her. Not many people had the stones to talk that way in a situation like this. “Did you tell the police about the phone call?”

“I told them that he called.”

“But not what he said.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She opened her mouth, closed it. “Because he’s my friend.”

Hm. “Last question, Counselor.” He kept her pinned with his eyes. “If you did know where he was, would you tell me?”

She paused a long moment before answering. “Yes.” Sophie pushed her shoulders back. “But not until I couldn’t not.”

Well, well. We have an honest-to-god human being here. He was almost glad she didn’t know anything. Always a shame to break something lovely. “Tough girl.” He straightened, tucked the gun back into his pants. “Smart one, too. Since you’re so smart, I don’t need the speech about not calling the police, right, sister?”

“No. I won’t. I promise.”

“Good.” He started for the door, then stopped, unable to help himself. “And, Sophie?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Her hair was wet, and the outline of her body marked the towel. She was trembling. Wondering, he could see, if he had changed his mind. If he was going to shoot her, or worse.

“I like your style. I ever need a lawyer, can I give you a call?”

She stared at him, and he laughed, then walked out, back through her house and into bright morning sunshine. He was maybe ten steps out the door when he heard a faint snap behind him, the sound of her locking the deadbolt.

Fifty bucks says she’s dialing 911 right now.

Good for her. He did love predictable people.

D

aniel was in a concrete canyon.

Water trickled. The bleeding sun stained everything crimson. Ahead was a tunnel, tall and broad. The mouth of it was perfect black shadow, but he knew that something waited there. Waited and watched.

Something terrible.

He turned, but he was alone this time. No lounging vision of Emily Sweet. Her absence made the whole world emptier.

From the darkness of the tunnel, a faint rasping. A movement sound, but indistinct and wrong, like snakes squirming across one another in dark pits, like the slow inhale of some huge beast. His fear was childlike in its perfection. It seized him completely. He wanted to run. Told himself to run. To turn and flee, feet splashing through the trickle of water in this lost basin.

Instead he took a tentative step forward.

I don’t want to. Please don’t go in there, don’t, stop . . . He took another step forward. His hands were heavy. The rasping again. His skin was too tight for his bones. His

breath came fast.

Run! Don’t go in there, don’t go in there, don’tgointhere— Something moved in the darkness of the tunnel. A shape his eyes

couldn’t fix, a swirling. Madness made physical.

Runrunrunrunru—

The darkness leapt at him. He threw himself back, arms and legs flailing, foot cracking into the side window of the BMW hard enough to set off the car alarm. A screaming horn yanked him upright, eyes wide, heart slamming against his ribs, hands fists and armpits sweaty as he stared around, placed himself, the car, the backseat of the car with the alarm going off, the cacophony hideous, the alarm screaming look at me look at me look at me until he fumbled for his keys, finally found them, stabbed the button. The horn died mid-honk.

“Fuck,” he said, gasping. “Fuck me.” Sunlight pounded in the windows, and his skin was sticky. He flopped back against the seat.

Sleep was becoming more trouble than it was worth. What were these dreams, this feeling of a terrible looming danger? Was it just his subconscious painting a picture of his situation? Electrical signals bouncing around the inside of his very confused brain? Or did it mean more than that?

Something must have caused all of this. Something set him in motion. No matter who he had been, he couldn’t believe he just woke up one morning and decided to drive across the country to drown himself.

He closed his eyes, tried to concentrate on the world he’d just left. He remembered a tunnel and an abandoned place. A darkness that loomed. But the details were melting away even as he tried to hold them. He could invent reasons for being there, but that’s all they were, inventions, and he couldn’t be more certain of them than of anything else.

Maybe I did something horrible. Maybe that’s why I don’t want to go back.

Daniel rubbed at his eyes, listened to the settling beat of his heart. He’d made some distance last night, all the way from rural Maine to rural New York, long blank stretches of night country briefly broken by shimmering cities. Somewhere east of Buffalo his chin had hit his chest for a second time, and so he’d pulled off into this hideous parking lot of a KOA campground. RVs hunched on concrete pads, electrical cords trailing to junction boxes. Amazing how ugly much of the country was.

We had the whole wide world, and the best we could come up with was McDonald’s and miniature golf.

He sat up, pushed open the car door, and went in search of the bathrooms.

Back on the road, he kept to the speed limit. Daniel figured he was safe so long as he avoided notice. He’d swapped plates again last night, trading the stolen Maine plates for freshly stolen New York ones. And the cops couldn’t stop every BMW on the road. He should be safe.

Simple as that, huh? So let me ask you, genius. You woke up without your memory once. What if it happens again?

Shit.

Shit.

Another thing. Money. His remaining cash wouldn’t even cover gas to Los Angeles. Plus he had a thing about eating, wanted to keep doing it.

Okay, well, so. No one said it would be easy. He’d have to be smart.

He spent the day sliding down the spine of Lake Erie, then across the flat, bland plains of Ohio into Indiana. Somewhere outside South Bend, as the sky began to sadden, he left the highway for a grungy strip of retailers, car dealerships, and gas stations. There was a drugstore beside an Applebee’s. Daniel bought himself a school-lined notebook and a pack of pens, then went next door. Bypassed the chipper teenage hostess and took a seat at the bar, a gaudy mess of Christmas lights and televisions tuned to sports. A guy who looked like he’d sampled a few too many appetizers took his order.

“A,” flipping through the menu, “steakhouse burger with everything. Rare.” Saying it with confidence this time.

“Something to drink?”

Daniel stared at the taps. God, a beer would be good. Money, though. He should save—“Yeah, gimme a tall Sam Adams.”

He uncapped the pen. How to start?

Simple. Start with what you were trying to say. That was the secret to writing. Daniel bent over the page:

Hi.

Your name is Daniel Hayes. At least, you think it is. That’s the name you found on the insurance card of a BMW that saved your life. And in case you haven’t yet guessed, I’m you.

Let me back up. This starts with you waking on a beach in Maine, naked and very, very cold . . .

His burger arrived, and he ate one-handed, not noticing the taste, getting lost in the process of telling his story so far. He’d only intended the journal in case his memory went on the fritz again, but as he wrote, he found that he was enjoying himself. There was a strange pleasure in stringing sentences together, in trying to evoke the scene as fully as possible with the fewest number of words. Something trance-like about it, and therapeutic, too—

“You look familiar.”

Daniel blinked, looked up. The woman sitting next to him had a white blouse and real estate agent hair. He hadn’t noticed her arrival, wondered how long she’d been sitting there. “I do?”

“Yeah. I can’t put my finger on why, though.”

“Me either.”

“Maybe you just have one of those faces.” She reached into her

purse, pulled out a pack of Parliaments. “You mind?”

“Nope.”

“Want one?” She held the pack out.

Huh. Do I smoke? “Thanks.” The cigarette felt natural between his

fingers. She cupped a match and he leaned into it, then took a deep drag.

His throat caught fire. A thick wave of smoke bellowed out of his mouth. His eyes teared as he coughed and struggled not to gag.

Apparently not.

5

Massive steel mills blasted flame into the night like something out of Blade Runner. Gary, Indiana, Chicago’s reeking stepson—cracked earth fronting twisted mazes of pipes and smokestacks. One of them had a Christmas tree on top.

Nothing quite as festive as toxic waste.

Farther west, the south suburbs of Chicago were a blur of strip malls and big-box signs. Modern constellations; instead of gods and heroes, his sky was filled with Home Depot and Best Buy. The clock told him it was after midnight, though his own time sense had gotten skewed. Had it been less than twenty-four hours since the cop hammered on his door, bellowed his name with weapon drawn?

Speaking of which. How about you stop dodging the subject?

During the safety of daylight, he’d concentrated on not thinking. Every time questions had crowded his mind, he’d forced them out by concentrating on practicalities. But now, hemmed in by darkness, he had nowhere to hide.

The Glock, for example. It was one thing to tell himself that lots of people owned handguns, that there was no reason to feel strange about the fact that he knew how to hold one, how to handle it. That it smelled of smoke because he’d taken it to the range. But a uniformed sheriff banging on his door made that harder to believe.

The amnesia, too. Or fugue, or lapse, or whatever he called it. He could call it Roy if he liked, didn’t change the facts. It had to come from something. Maybe he was right and Roy sprang from the trauma of his suicide swim. But maybe not. Maybe Roy was a bomb in his head. A brain tumor, for example.

And if that was true, it could have an impact on everything else. Including his personality—or what he thought was his personality. Daniel rolled down the window, let cold air rush in. Took deep breaths.

Really, all of the questions come down to one.

Who are you when you don’t remember who you are?

He didn’t feel like a bad man. Didn’t have murder in his heart, hadn’t wanted to jump the sheriff, or sideswipe the cars that cut him off. Even if he hadn’t left the Glock in Maine, the thought of holding it on a clerk and demanding the cash in the register turned his stomach.

And yet the cops were after him for something. It wasn’t a mistake. They knew his name, they knew his car, and they had come at him with guns drawn.

What if you were a bad man? A criminal, a killer? Are you that person still?

It was a haunting thought. Part of the point of life was that you looked around, you made choices, and those choices had consequences. Rotten consequences were fair because you had made the choice that got you there. Walk out on your kids, you don’t get to complain about gut-deep loneliness on Christmas morning. Tell off your boss, no whining that the promotion goes to someone else. Do murder, and you burn. Maybe not in hell—he didn’t feel particularly religious—but in life. Prison, yes, but beyond that, a shadow thrown over every day to come, a separation from every other person.

But this. To just wake up, bang, eyes open, and discover that everything was wrong. That he was suicidal and wanted by the police and maybe a monster, and to have had no choice in the matter.

If the person I was before did something wrong, do I have to pay the price?

And just how high is it going to be?

5

Daniel hocked the Rolex at a pawnshop west of Des Moines. He hated to do it, but couldn’t see another way. Maybe in the past he’d robbed liquor stores—hell, maybe he’d killed presidents—but best he could remember, he wasn’t that guy, and he didn’t want to be.

Perhaps the answer to the question of who you were when you couldn’t remember was simple: whoever you chose.

The man behind the counter offered him $325. Daniel countered with $7,500, half the retail price. Where they settled was nothing like the middle, but the man paid cash, a thick stack of worn bills. Daniel celebrated with breakfast at a truck stop and discovered that chicken-fried steak tasted way better than it had any right to.

Iowa in morning light. Sky a pale blue bowl and air just the crisp side of cold. Interstate 80, still. Still flat, still straight, still mindnumbing. Farmland sprawled on either side of the road. Corn, he thought. Or wheat. Barley. How the hell should he know?

Man, but the country was big. Things were getting bleary. Too much world, and nothing for context. No family to think of, no home to remember. Nothing to do but count the electrical towers looming like metal monsters, Dali animals come to life. The radio was all preachers and country music and one lonely station of teenage pop-tarts with nothing to peddle but firm thighs and the dream of a youth he couldn’t recall.

He imagined Emily Sweet in the seat next to him. The window open and her hair whipping in the breeze and that quirky crooked smile on her face. Neither of them talking, just comfortably passing the miles.

Nebraska. More corn.

He passed the time telling stories about people in other cars. The faded Saab was driven by a middle-aged sociology professor; though the love was gone from her marriage, they were staying together for the kids and had settled into the comfortable camaraderie of soldiers on a long campaign. But this morning she had steeled herself against the hurt in her husband’s eyes, made a long-distance phone call and a flimsy excuse, and flown westward wild and free, head full of the doctor of romance languages who was waiting at the North Platte Best Western, a man with thinning hair and an unfortunate chin but eyes that were soft and kind and long fingers that would bite into her skin as he muttered French syllables she couldn’t define but understood perfectly.

Choreographing their affair—the professor’s husband, it turned out, was not so passionless as she imagined, and would spend tonight pacing, trying not to wake the kids as he sucked a bottle of scotch and planned ways to win her back; only, her Frenchman too was smitten with her, wanted more than an affair, and would follow her east, which brought all of them into a nicely orchestrated conflict on the lawn of their suburban home—carried him into Colorado and the afternoon.

Time to check your head.

Last night he’d wondered if maybe there was something physically wrong with him. It was an uncomfortable thought even in his present state, when discomfort was pretty much the status quo. To think that something might be growing in his head, that some biochemical quirk was the cause of all his present troubles, and that it could happen again, well, it didn’t settle the nerves. And yet, he couldn’t exactly go to a hospital. No ID, no insurance, not enough money, the cops looking for him—no.

He pulled into the outskirts of Denver around four. The Rockies were just a ghost on the horizon, a blur highlighted by the lowering sun. He stopped at a gas station, filled the tank, bought some jerky and a Diet Coke he could have parked a Jet Ski in. In the hallway by the bathrooms, he used the Yellow Pages chained to the pay phones to find what he was looking for. A three-foot map pinned behind plastic laid the city out. He sipped his soda, found the address, and traced a route with his finger.

The shopping mall, like most of the city, was long and low, huddling beneath the dome of the sky. There was an organic food market, a sushi place, an Aveda salon. At the end, a pale blue sign read

CLEAR IMAGE OPEN MRI.

The ad in the phone book had listed the hours as 8 _A.M. to 6 _P.M. Daniel parked, killed the engine, and tucked a wad of jerky in his mouth.

Early darkness had fallen by the time people started trickling out of the clinic. The patients were gone by five-thirty. The doctors followed hard on their heels, well-dressed men and women heading for expensive cars. At six o’clock, a couple of receptionists in blue scrubs strolled out chatting. Daniel watched carefully, hoping he hadn’t been wrong, but neither of them stopped to lock up.

When he pulled open the heavy glass door, a bell dinged somewhere to announce his arrival. Daniel rocked from foot to foot, glancing around the waiting room—comfortable chairs, abstract art, Esquire, InStyle, and Vanity Fair—and ran through the script he’d written for himself.

“Sorry, we’re closed.” The man behind the desk had appeared from nowhere. He wore white scrubs, as Daniel had hoped.

He didn’t say “Sorry, sir.” Take that into account. Go fraternal. “I know.”

The guy glanced at his watch. “If you want to make an appointment—”

“This is going to sound weird.” He played the pause. The last days had given him the physical appearance he needed, deep pits under his eyes and an air of haggard weariness. “You mind if I ask, is your father still alive?”

The buzzing of the overhead lights seemed loud. “No,” the man said, finally. “Lost him three years ago.”

“Mine died last week.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thanks.” He moved to the counter, leaned on it. “A brain tumor. There was a Latin name for it, but I never wanted to know. That would have made it too real. Not that it mattered in the end.” The hallway leading past the desk was dark. “My dad, he was . . . he was the strongest guy I knew. But this thing, it was like he was possessed. It took his memory, messed with his senses, took his speech.” Without meaning to, he choked back a sob, and as he did, he realized that he was actually feeling the emotions he was describing. Was he just mourning the memories that had vanished? Or did those memories hold a sorrow he hadn’t suspected? “It was awful.”

“I can imagine.”

“The doctor said that the tumor, it wasn’t hereditary.”

“Most aren’t, no.” The guy seeing where he was going. “You should talk to your doctor, but—”

“I did. He told me not to worry. That just because my dad had it didn’t mean I would. Thing is, I can’t stop. I mean, that’s my biggest fear. Losing control like that. Scares the hell out of me.”

The tech glanced at his watch. “Listen, I really am sorry—”

“Hear me out, okay? I asked my doctor if he would run a scan for it, and he said no. Said he wouldn’t write a prescription because there was no medical need. And I get it,” raising his hands, “I do. I understand that no way do I have the same thing. But I can’t stop thinking about it, you know? I haven’t slept in days. It’s killing me, the fear that there’s something in my head right now.”

“You could ask another doctor—”

“It would take me a week to get an appointment. And he might say no. Listen. I just need the peace of mind. You lost your dad. You know what I’m talking about.”

The guy hesitated. “I don’t know . . .”

“I’ll pay you five hundred dollars.” Daniel pulled the money from his jeans. “Please. I’m going crazy here.”

The man bit his lip. Looked down the hall. Checked his watch again.

“Please?”

“If anyone found out—”

“How? I won’t tell, and I don’t need the film, or whatever it is. I just want someone to look and tell me I’m okay.”

“I’m not a doctor.”

“The doctor’s the guy who makes bank for having his name on the door. But you probably do a dozen of these a day, right?”

“More.”

“Please. You’d really be doing me a favor.” He set the money on the counter.

The tech looked at it. Took a deep breath, then a step forward. “Come around that door over there.”

Ten minutes later, he was wearing a hospital gown—no metal, the tech, whose name had turned out to be Mike, had said; this thing is basically one big magnet—and lying on a table in a device that looked like something out of Star Trek. He’d imagined a torpedo tube, but this was much nicer. He was sandwiched between two broad cylinders, and the open peripheral vision was comforting. He had his eyes closed, and was concentrating on lying as still as he could, trying not to pay attention to the loud clanking and banging, and most of all, trying not to think about what Mike might find.

On the other hand, if he finds something, you’ve got an answer. If not, you’re just nuts.

It was a long half hour.

Finally, Mike’s voice came through a speaker. “Okay, I’m gonna bring you out.” The tray Daniel lay on slid smoothly, and then he was staring at ceiling tile, aware again of the draft running under the thin gown.

He sat up slowly, blinked. “What’s the word?”

Mike stood at the door to the room, holding it open with one hand. “I’m sorry to tell you this . . .”

Oh shit . . .

“. . . but you’re perfectly fine.”

Daniel exhaled. “That’s not funny, man.”

“Sorry. But you knew that, right?”

“You’re sure?”

“Come look.”

Daniel hopped off the table, followed the tech into the next room. It was dim, and dominated by a broad monitor. The screen was split into quadrants, each showing a black-and-white image.

“I’m not printing anything out, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure.”

The man punched a button, and the monitor switched to a single image, an amoeba of black and white. The shape shifted and grew, morphed into the rough shape of a human skull, the cauliflower coils of the brain showing up in high contrast. As Mike pressed keys, the frame jumped, showing, Daniel assumed, different cutouts.

“I don’t really know what I’m looking for.”

“Abnormalities.”

“Unless it’s a little cartoon bomb with a lit fuse, I’m not sure I’d see it.”

“There’s nothing there. The scan is normal.”

“You’re sure?”

“Man, you want to see a doc, up to you, but this is your brain, and there ain’t nothing wrong with it.” The tech turned, looked up at him. “Physically, at least.”

“Yeah.”

“Now, I’m sorry, but . . .”

“Right.” Daniel pulled the money out, passed it over. “Thanks.”

Back in the changing room, he took off the gown, put on his jeans and undershirt. Trying not to think.

Mike walked him to the door. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I just.” He shrugged. “I started to believe.”

“Well, be happy, my man. All’s well.”

Daniel nodded, stepped out.

“Oh, and hey. I’m sorry about your dad.”

“Thanks,” he said, and walked through the dark parking lot to his car. Feeling rotten for the lie, but worse for the truth. He was fine, physically, and that should have been a relief.

The problem was, something had made him take this trip the other direction. Judging by the empty blister packs of ephedrine, he might have made the whole damn distance in one brain-rattling sprint, chewing the bitter tabs so they’d kick in faster, washing them down with Jack Daniel’s and gas station coffee. The lines in the road blurring solid, trees a green wall, “reality” less dependable with every exhausted moment. A mad dash into the eastern sky.

Which does beg the question: If it’s not physical, what is it?

What would make someone run that hard, that fast?

T

he chunk of shiny pink flesh slipped from his grip and splashed dark fluid all over the table.

Bennett shook his head and gave up on the chopsticks. Stupid invention. Snagging the salmon between thumb and forefinger, he dunked it in the soy again and popped it in his mouth, closing his eyes to savor the way the fatty fish melted as he chewed. He followed it with a sip of sake, gone lukewarm now. When he wiped his fingers, he smeared prints on the linen napkin.