Текст книги "The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes"
Автор книги: Marcus Sakey
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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
She checked her outfit, jeans a couple of years out of date but snug and flattering, and a fitted white button-down she’d found at Target. Not bad. She undid the top button, then another, so that the lace edge of her bra was visible. Better.
The store was an airplane hangar, the grid of lights running into the horizon. Bored clerks rang up endless lines. Barb Schroeder took it in, then followed the signs to sporting goods.
It had always amused her that these stores had everything, everything, you could ever need. Groceries, clothes, toys, electronics, housewares . . . ammunition.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” The voice came from behind.
Barb turned, smiling, looking him in the face, and watched him take in her port wine stain, the dark red blotch that had defined her whole life. His eyes did the usual dance—the stain, the floor, her face, but not up to the mark.
“I hope so,” she said, and threw just the tiniest hint of twang into her voice. Kentucky, not Alabama. “I need to buy bullets.”
“Rounds,” he said. He was nice-looking in a cowboy sort of way, probably late forties. Perfect. “We call them rounds.”
“Sorry.” A little giggle and a cock of her hips. “My boyfriend got me this gun, a Sig Sauer something, said if I won’t move in with him, I need to have it. He’s a cop, says until they get rid of all the bad guys with guns, we all need them too.”
“You know which model?”
“A pretty one. Silver and black.”
“Well—”
“I’m kidding, hon. I need .45 ACP.”
He grinned, then took a key ring from his belt, opened a glass display case. “Got a preference as far as brand?”
“It matter?”
“Not really. Winchesters are good, Blazer is a little cheaper.”
“Winchester is fine.”
“They come a hundred to a box.”
“I’ll take . . . three, I guess? Need to practice some.”
The clerk nodded, took out three boxes. “Anything else?”
“Targets?”
He showed her a selection, paper targets with bull’s-eyes and silhouettes of deer and people. She picked the ones shaped like a man.
“I can ring you up over here.” He led her up the aisle to a small register, scanned the ammunition. The register beeped, and he gave her a sly look. “You over twenty-one?”
She laughed. “Hon, I weren’t already seeing a man with a gun, I might just marry you for that.”
He smiled, put her stuff in a bag. “Eighty-seven forty.”
“Easy come, huh?” She counted out the bills, made sure to touch his fingers when she passed them to him. “Thanks for the help.”
“No problem.”
Barb Schroeder picked up the bag, surprised at the weight, then started for the front.
Now it was almost four, and Belinda Nichols was on the 15 again, heading back through the desert, about ten miles outside of Barstow. A sign told her exit 194 was coming up; she took it, found herself on the kind of dusty two-lane you saw in modern westerns, a long straight run to the sky. A few minutes later a dirt road branched off, and she took that, followed it for fifteen minutes until she was in a low canyon, all brown earth and scrub weeds. Pulled the van over and sat at the side of the road. Nothing happened. No cars, no trucks, nothing.
Belinda picked up the bag of ammunition, the paper targets, and the Sig Sauer she had taken from Daniel Hayes’s house and walked into the hills.
She found a twisted tree and hung the target on it, poking a branch through the paper. Then she walked back ten feet. The sun beat down on her as she held the pistol, found the lever to unlock the magazine. She opened one of the boxes of ammunition and loaded it carefully. Belinda hated the feeling of it, the way it was so clean and smooth and appealing; the machined precision of the gun, the perfect cylinder of each round. Hated the slickness of the whole thing, the fact that for all the flawless appeal on one side, the end result was messy and evil.
Get over it. You don’t have a choice. Until you do this, Bennett owns you. When it’s done, you’ll be free.
She blew out a breath, held the gun up in both hands. It was heavy, and as she stared down the barrel, the thing wavered back and forth across the target. Her hands were sweaty.
When Belinda pulled the trigger, the crack was so loud the rest of the world seemed to buzz.
A neat hole had appeared in the target. It wasn’t in the bull’s-eye, but it was inside the rings. Not bad.
Not good enough. You can’t screw this up. It won’t be a target you’re shooting at. It will be a man, and you can’t miss.
She wiped her hands on her jeans, one then the other, and then raised the gun again.
And again.
And again.
5
The building was a rent-a-room in Studio City, a two-story reclaimed from an old dance hall and divided into offices. Nice enough place, the façade intact, and the original floors, the boards battered and wide. Bennett had scoped it, walking into the lobby with a pizza box in one hand. Marking the security camera mounted in the ceiling. Nothing fancy, your standard closed-circuit, likely feeding to a digital recording system, a stack-burner for DVD-RWs. There was a wall board with the list of tenants, and he counted seconds while examining it. Mostly small production companies—who in this town wasn’t a producer?—as well as a number of writers, a lowrent agent or two, a dentist. He found the name he was looking for, suite 106, then scanned quick for the occupant of 105. He was up to twenty-two seconds before a dude in a blue monkey suit stepped out of an unmarked office door, asked if he could be of service.
“Yeah, I’ve got a delivery for,” he faked looking at the ticket, “the Council for Colombian Imports?” He smiled. “That’s just got to be a joke, right?”
The security guard had grinned, said, “Suite 105. Down the hall, take a right, just past the bathrooms.”
“Thanks, brother.”
“No prob.”
He’d sauntered down the hall, taken the right, walked past the bathrooms, whistling. There was another camera at the corner, but just one to cover the whole hall. The doors were out of an old-time private eye movie, wooden frames with frosted glass panels, the occupant names lettered in gold. Suite 105, THE COUNCIL FOR COLOMBIAN IMPORTS. Suite 106, DANIEL HAYES. Bennett knocked on 105. A minute later, a cute little thing maybe five feet tall, all curls and dark eyes, opened the door. “Yes?”
“Afternoon, ma’am. I’m with Salami Jim’s; we’ve just opened, and to introduce ourselves, we’re sending free pizzas to our new neighbors.” He thrust the box at her, and she took it, as he knew she would. Predictable, people.
“I—thank you.”
“Hope you enjoy. Remember, Salami Jim has the sausage you love to swallow.” He started away.
“Wait.”
Bennett turned, and the cute little thing said, “Can I tip you?”
He smiled as he took the two crumpled bucks she pulled out. Why did women carry bills like they were notes passed in class, something they needed to stuff away quickly?
That was earlier. Now, after ten, he was parked in his truck across the street. The window for The Council for Colombian Imports had gone dark a couple of hours back. Daniel Hayes’s hadn’t ever been bright, but that was no surprise. Bennett pulled on a pair of driving gloves, slid the Colt in the back of his belt where his leather jacket would cover it, and got out of the truck.
The office building had a parking lot, and in the time he’d sat across the street, he’d seen a security guard—a different one this time, fat and sporting a mustache—stroll through it exactly once. Keeping his gait easy, Bennett crossed Ventura, walked into the lot. Despite the hour, there were half a dozen cars parked. A mixed bag, but the winner was a Mustang, an LED blinking red on the dashboard. He walked past the Dumpsters to a weed-covered ridge that ran along the side of the building. Counted windows, uno, dos, tres, cuatro, the Council for Colombian Imports’s, and then Daniel Hayes’s. It was double-paned and fixed, no sensors in the corner, aimed more at numbing street noise than security. Perfect.
In the dark, it took him five minutes to find a few decent-sized rocks. His first throw went long, overshot the Mustang by a couple of feet. Bennett wound up, lobbed another, this one denting the side of a Civic just shy of the Mustang. For Christ’s sake. He took a breath, shook out his arm, and tried again.
The rock smacked into the Mustang’s windshield. The alarm started, headlights flashing and horn honking, the sound and light seeming to carry the rock as it bounced away.
5
Wayne Reynolds had his feet up on the desk, sitting sideways to the computer, browser open to Apartments.com. It had a color-coded map of the city, overlays that tinted it gray and orange and purple.
Should just tint it shades of green.
The east side, or in the valley, there were places he could afford. But Marta wanted to leave their cookie-cutter two-bedroom in Crenshaw and head for the beach. Maybe Santa Monica, she’d said, like there was a chance of that. Like all you needed to live there was a taste for ocean breezes.
He clicked to the search, filled the maximum rent field with what they paid now. The results were . . . uninspiring.
“Garden apartment.” Code for “subterranean.”
“Efficiency” really meant “you like shitting and cooking in the same room?”
And “loft” in this case should have read “windowless bunker.”
Wayne sighed, reached for his sandwich—tuna with fat-free mayo and sprouts, Marta trying to help him on the diet—and took a joyless bite. Here was something, a one bedroom in Tarzana that didn’t look bad—
A horn started honking, once, twice, three times, steady. He glanced at the security monitor, saw that it was one of his. Jerry Logue’s Mustang. Damn. Wayne couldn’t see anyone in the lot. Probably just set off by the vibrations of a passing truck.
That’s the problem, Wayne, honey, you never take any initiative. If you want to get ahead . . . Marta’s voice from their fight last week.
He sighed, shrugged, stood up. Checked the Taser on his belt, grabbed the flashlight, walked out of the office. The lobby was quiet, the track lighting low, casting dramatic highlights and shadows. Wayne shouldered open the door, the ring of keys on his belt jingling. The night was cool, the sky above a wash of purple clouds.
The Mustang was blaring away, lights flashing. He put one hand in his pocket against the chill and swept the big Maglite around with the other. No one took off running. He reached the car, stood there for a second. Now what? Dust for prints?
No one in the lot that he could see. Traffic on Ventura was light. In the drugstore next door, a guy standing next to an Explorer was looking over, apparently drawn by the alarm. When he saw Wayne, the guy nodded, turned back to his truck.
Wayne bent down, shined the light underneath the Mustang. No one leapt out. He shrugged, kicked at the tire. The moment his foot touched it, the alarm shut off.
I am Magical! Wonder Wayne to the rescue. He turned off the flashlight and headed back inside, wondering about that place in Tarzana. Not exactly Santa Monica, but it would be a change at least, and that was probably what she really wanted. And with the economy the way it was, he might be able to bargain the price down.
It felt good to step back into the warmth of the lobby. He glanced at his watch. The next scheduled rounds weren’t for another twenty minutes. Still, may as well do them now; he was up, and dinner wasn’t much enticement.
Wayne looked down the hall, decided to hit the second floor first. He started for the elevator, heard Marta’s voice reminding him he could use the exercise, and took the stairs instead.
5
From the parking lot of the CVS next door, Bennett watched the fat guard approach the Mustang. The man saw him looking, and Bennett nodded, then turned, started digging in his pocket like he was looking for keys. After a moment, the alarm stopped, and the guard strolled back inside. High security.
Bennett smiled, waited a few more seconds, then left the parking lot and headed back to Hayes’s window. He’d thrown the rock through as soon as the Mustang’s alarm had started, and even standing right next to it, the crash had been largely drowned out. Careful not to cut himself, he pulled out some of the larger chunks of glass at the bottom, dropped them in the weeds, and let himself in.
The office was simple but appealing. A desk with a couch opposite. A small conference table. A mini-fridge, and on top of it, three bottles of whiskey. He poured himself a couple of inches of the best, sipped at it. Nice.
Okay. Time to work.
He pulled the blinds to cover the glow from his penlight and started with the desk, taking it one drawer at a time. It didn’t take long; there wasn’t much in it. He’d wondered why Daniel kept this office, what with the lovely room Bennett had discovered in the guy’s Malibu home. Apparently, the reason didn’t have much to do with writing. Meetings, maybe. Bennett had never been big on meetings, but this looked like a nice place to have one.
He checked behind the framed Memento poster for a safe; no joy. Same with the posters for Solaris and The Fountain. He took down and opened the books on the shelf, titles like Save the Cat and The Writer’s Journey, but again, nada.
Bennett stood in the center of the room, looked around. He traced a ridged scar on his bicep, a deep cut from a knife in Detroit. Where next?
He didn’t really expect to find anything here; it was a little obvious, even for Daniel. Still, the guy had hidden Bennett’s payment somewhere. And until Hayes reappeared, it was worth the effort to look. A half-million dollars was worth a whole lot of effort.
Methodically, then. He took another sip of whiskey, set down the glass, and, using the desk as the starting point, began to work his way around the room. If there was something to be found, he’d find it.
5
Wayne walked a circuit of the second floor, the keys percussion to his tuneless humming. The light was on in Jerry Logue’s office, and he knocked. May as well score brownie points. The door opened, and Logue’s beak popped out. “Yes?”
“Mr. Logue, it’s Wayne, with security,” he said, as if the guy couldn’t have told from the uniform, as if the dick hadn’t walked past him a hundred times.
“Yes?”
“Just wanted to let you know your car alarm went off.” The guy cocked an eyebrow.
“I checked it out, but everything seems fine.”
“Great.”
“Thought you’d want to know.”
“Great.” The man shut the door in his face.
You’re welcome, asshole.
The rest of the floor was quiet, and he went back down the stairs,
taking each of them, the way they said you got the most exercise. Back in the lobby, he turned right, headed down the hall. Everything was quiet, most of the tenants gone for the night. He turned the corner, past the Council for Colombian Imports—that just had to be a joke—realized he needed to take a leak. Unlocked the head, the fluorescents flickering on as he walked in. He stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, rocked back and forth on his heels. Corporate bathrooms always gave him the willies. Something about the weird, impersonal cleanliness of the things. And the no-touch faucets and hand dryers. His other superpower, besides stopping car alarms, was invisibility to sensors. He spent twenty seconds trying to get the sink to admit he existed. Now to decide whether to use my powers for good or evil. He didn’t bother with the hand dryer, just wiped on his pants and stepped out.
There was a light in suite 106.
Wayne froze. Stared at the frosted glass of the door. He stood still, concentrating. Was that a scrape he heard from inside?
So someone is in the office. That’s kind of the point.
Sure. But 106 was Mr. Hayes’s. The guy had always been pleasant to him, seemed like a nice guy, but then, that’s what everybody said about people who turned out to be killers. “Oh, that Theodore Bundy, he seemed like such a nice boy.”
That’s the problem, Wayne, honey, you never take any initiative. If you want to get ahead . . .
Wayne took a step forward. His keys rattled, and he froze. Slowly, he unclipped them from his belt, held them in one sweaty palm. He tiptoed, feeling ridiculous, too big to be tiptoeing, but what the hell, it was working, and besides, there was no one to see.
A sound like a drawer opening and closing came from inside, and, dimly, another quick glow of light.
Wayne’s heart kicked into gear. What now, Wonder Wayne?
As quietly as he could, he found the master key on the ring and eased it into the door. Drew his Taser, the grip strange in his hand. He hadn’t fired the thing since the training course two years ago. Still, it took about as much skill as a remote control. If he could change the channel, he figured he could Tase one screenwriter.
Okay. Do it smooth. Seeing the headlines already, HERO SECURITY GUARD CAPTURES WIFE-KILLER, he twisted the key, threw open the door, then raised the flashlight and thumbed it on as he stepped inside. Saw Daniel kneeling at a filing cabinet half a dozen feet away, jerked the beam onto him, yelling, “Mr. Hayes, freeze!”
The man froze. But it wasn’t Daniel Hayes.
Wayne didn’t recognize him, an average-looking guy in a black leather jacket, a penlight in his mouth to leave his hands free as he looked at the files. A dozen thoughts came from a dozen directions, colliding in the center of his brain, leaving no clear winner.
“Whoa,” the guy said, and stood up, blinking. “Jesus. You scared the shit out of me.”
Wayne said the only thing that came to mind. “You’re not Mr. Hayes.”
“Right you are.”
“I thought—”
“Let me guess.” The man at ease. “You thought I was my partner.”
“Your partner?”
“Daniel. He’s my writing partner.”
Which meant that Wayne had just barged into a locked office without permission. Shit, shit, shit. But then, wait a second, his thoughts racing, that didn’t make a lot of sense. If the two were partners, how come he’d never seen the guy? And what about the flashlight? “What are you doing here?”
“My old lady and me got in a fight. Dan let me crash here till she comes round.” The dude smiled at him, lowered his hands, put one to his heart. “She-it, you scared me.” He squinted at Wayne, said, “You mind getting that thing out of my eyes, chief?”
“How’d you get in here?”
“I broke the window.” The guy gestured over his shoulder. “How do you think? The front door.”
“I haven’t seen you.”
“Been here all day. Now, seriously, get that light out of my eyes.”
Something wasn’t right, but he was so calm. And it wasn’t really Wayne’s business, not without an evident disturbance. He lowered the light to splash at their feet, the reflection bright enough still to see by. “You have some ID?”
“At home.” The guy looked sheepish, scratched at his head. “Left in kind of a hurry, you know? My wife was throwing plates, and she’s got a wicked arm.”
Marta wasn’t a plate thrower, but Wayne could relate to the desire to get to out quick when a fight started. He’d never liked conflict. Something Marta often pointed out when she suggested he might want to get another job, something with a bigger future.
Then his mind processed something he’d seen but not really noticed. “Wait.”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you wearing gloves?”
5
Well, shit.
Bennett laughed, ducked his head sheepishly, his left hand moving up to scratch at his temple again, hoping the first time had gotten the guard used to it. He said, “Funny story,” then, while the guard watched his left hand, he snaked his right behind his back, jerked the Colt, and brought it to bear. “That would be so I don’t leave fingerprints.”
The man stared at him, lips slightly parted. There was a crumb of something in his mustache and sweat on his forehead.
“Here’s the story, chief.” Bennett kept up the affable tone. “You’ve got a Taser, security issue—what is that, the C2?—so not even one of the bad boys the cops carry. And me, I’ve got a Colt Defender. There’s three ways this plays out. Number one, I shoot first. A .45 hollow-point is designed to expand on impact and shred internal organs like a blender. Not so good for you. Option two, maybe we both shoot at the same time. This distance, you can’t miss, but neither can I. So I get shocked for thirty seconds, no fun, but you get shot, so again, worse for you.” He paused, working the theater. “Option three, and this one’s the real doozy, maybe you’re faster than you look. You get me before I can pull the trigger. Thing is, you know what happens then? All that electricity slams through my system, and wham, my muscles start contracting—including my index finger, which means, yep, you guessed it. You get shot.”
The guard hesitated, ran a tongue along his lips. Bennett could see a vein jumping just above the fat man’s eye. “Basically, you’re outgunned, friend. Bad luck, but that’s life.”
“Put your weapon down and step over to the desk.” The guy’s voice squeaky.
“I’ve got a better idea. I don’t really want to shoot you. So here’s what I propose. You lower that thing. I’ll lower mine. Then we each go out the way we came. Five minutes after I’m gone, you can come in here, find the broken window, maybe you get to be a hero after all.”
A long pause, the guy thinking over everything he’d said. “How do I know—how do I know you won’t shoot me?”
“Why would I shoot you? Get homicide detectives looking for me? No thank you. I just want to walk out.” He held the moment, then said, “Look, it’s up to you. Be a hero or a corpse. But if you lower your toy there, I promise, I won’t hurt you.”
The air in the room was cool, the broken window letting in a November breeze. Bennett held his aim steady, the gun at waist level but square at the man’s fat chest. He could see the man thinking it over, could practically read his thoughts: the twelve dollars an hour he made, the dinner waiting at his desk, the way he desperately needed to take a piss. Saw the decision come over his face, a simple weighing of options, and then the guard lowered his weapon.
Bennett cracked him in the face with the butt of the Colt.
The man made a squealing sound, the Taser falling from his fingers as reflex brought his hands to his face. Blood rushed between his knuckles, and his eyes went wobbly. He staggered backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell.
Bennett picked up the Taser, tossed it aside. The guard was panting and keening.
“Funny thing,” Bennett said. “I’ve never understood it. Promise something, people tend to believe it. Even if the guy saying it has a gun pointed at them.” He reached for his whiskey, knocked it back. With the heightened senses that came of action, every taste bud glowed.
The guard scrabbled at the floor, pulling himself on his elbows. Bennett wiped the rim of the whiskey glass clean, then set it down and went behind the desk. Found the rock he’d thrown through earlier.
Fatso had a name tag, read Wayne Reynolds. Bennett sighed, then dropped down to straddle the man, pinning the guy’s arms down.
“No,” Wayne said, the sounds coming out boh through his broken nose. His eyes were wild. “Don’t.”
“Sorry. No choice.”
“Wait. No. I don’t know who you are. You don’t have to—”
“Unfortunately, once I’m gone, you’ll get brave again. You’ll call the cops, and they’ll look through the security tapes, and you, wanting to be a hero, you’ll point me out. And then they’ll see that I wasn’t wearing gloves when I came in earlier, and they might pull a print. And that, my friend, I cannot have.”
“I bohn’t. I won’t tell them anything.”
“Can’t risk it.”
“Please—”
“I am sorry about having to do it this way. Nothing personal. But this has to look amateurish.” Bennett raised his arm.
Wayne screamed, “Marta!” as Bennett brought the rock down.
The guy stopped yelling right away. But it took more hits than Bennett expected before he stopped breathing.
5
INT. HALL OF JUDGMENT—AFTERNOON
A square room made of heavy blocks of stone. Torches flicker on the walls, smoke rises to the ceiling.
There is a faint, solemn sound like waves in the distance.
DANIEL HAYES sits in a chair, elbows on knees. There’s something dark on his hands. He starts to touch one with the other, hesitates.
JUDGE 1 (O.S.)
Blood.
Daniel looks up, startled.
There is a table in front of him. Behind it sit three hooded figures. The JUDGES are tall and skeletally thin, and he cannot make out their features.
DANIEL Where am I?
JUDGES 2 & 3 (in sync)
Guilty.
JUDGE 1
Blood on your hands.
The judge’s speech is deep, sonorous, a voice from the bottom of a well.
Daniel looks down, sees that dark liquid now covers his fingers. He jerks, holds them out. A drop falls to the floor, and then another.
DANIEL
I didn’t do anything!
JUDGES 2 & 3
Guilty.
JUDGE 1
If you didn’t do anything, why are you here?
DANIEL
I . . . I don’t know.
JUDGES 1
Then how do you know you don’t belong here?
DANIEL
I’m dreaming. This is a dream. JUDGE 1
The rest was a dream. This is real. DANIEL
No. No, that can’t be—
JUDGES 2 & 3
Guilty. JUDGE 1
Blood on your hands. Blood on your soul. DANIEL
I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this. (clenches his fists)
I’m not a monster.
JUDGES 2 & 3
Guilty.
DANIEL
No!
He lurches up from the chair. The judges sit still as buildings, the hollow of their cowled hoods perfect black.
Daniel turns, starts to run. Trips over the chair, pulls himself up.
There is a heavy wooden door on the wall behind him. He grabs the handle, pulls, the door grinding an inch at a time.
JUDGES 2 & 3 (O.S.)
Guilty!
INT. DANIEL & LANEY’S MALIBU HOUSE—CONTINUOUS
The medieval room, the robed judges, the torches, they’re gone.
Daniel stands in his kitchen. Shadows cast through the window stain the floor, the walls, the counters. The sound of the ocean is louder.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
What did you do?
The sound is coming from the other room. Daniel starts in that direction.
A door slams.
Daniel begins to run.
He leaves the kitchen, breaks into the living room.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
What did you do?
Daniel runs faster. He bolts out the side of the living room.
He is back in the kitchen.
DANIEL
Laney?
He runs the other way, into the hall, gets to the front door, rips it open, steps through. He is back in the kitchen.
Daniel runs again. The house is a nightmare maze. Doors that never existed open onto impossible hallways.
A voice begins to sing. It’s a woman’s voice, but strange, stretched out somehow.
FEMALE VOICE (O.S.)
Hawrk the herald ang-gels siing
(the voice stops, changes to a laughing tone.)
You know, with their heads thrown back and mouths all wide—
(singing again)
Glo-ree to, the new bowrn king.
(talking)
Remember?
Daniel continues to run, faster and faster. His hands leave blood smudges on everything he touches.
FEMALE VOICE(O.S.) Remember?
DANIEL
Laney, I didn’t do anything, I didn’t, I know I didn’t! Help me, please, help– Daniel slows as the familiar door approaches. FEMALE VOICE(O.S.)
(no sign she’s heard)
And then they dance.
(she sings a soundtrack)
da-na-na-nanana-na-nah, da-na-na-nah . . . da-na-na-nanana-na-nah, da-dada, dadada. . . .
Daniel opens the door, steps through . . . FEMALE VOICE(O.S.)
Bah-dah-dah-dah! Doink-iddie doink-iddie, doink-iddie, Bah-dah-dah-dah! Doink-iddie doink-iddie—
He is back in the kitchen.
DANIEL
I’m trying! Help me!
The woman’s voice dissolves into beautiful, bubbly laughter.
Daniel sinks to the floor.
DANIEL
You have to help me.
(fading)
I need help.
(staring at bloody hands)
Please.
5
Something smacked his feet, and Daniel jerked awake, heart thudding and stomach a tight, hard ball, a blinding white light in his eyes. He raised a hand, squinted through his fingertips. “What—”
“Get up.” The voice stern. Used to being obeyed. A breaker slammed into the beach, the impact tremor riding through his back. Daniel scrambled for thought, for context. Where was he? What was going on?
Last night. He’d read those articles, those foul, vile articles. The woman he loved gone, gone forever, and the whole world sure that he had done it, that he was the kind of man who murdered his wife. He’d left the café and stalked the streets. Hating everything and everyone. Hating Los Angeles most of all. He’d finally made it, only to realize he didn’t want to be here. It was glitter and vigor up front, all to leave you unprepared for how deep the sorrow ran when things went wrong. A driving city with lousy parking. Yoga during the day, cocaine at night. You can live the dream life with your dream girl, but you don’t get to remember it, and when the bill comes, it’s a fucking doozy.
He’d finally found a liquor store, where a Sikh sold him bourbon. Perfect.
Then walking, drinking, more walking. Finally coming onto the beach in Venice. The bottle mostly gone. The surf rolling steady, like it had all the time in the world. Like nothing was worthy of notice. He’d lain down, the world spinning below him, the universe whirling above, and remembered, just before falling asleep, the sensation that instead of looking up he was looking down, that he was clinging to the earth above a terrible and endless night—
“I said get up.” The last word punctuated with another kick at his feet.
“Hey, man, easy.” Daniel sat up, rubbed at his eyes. “I just fell asleep is all.” Thinking, a cop, a cop, a cop. He kept his face tilted down, hoping the guy hadn’t really studied him, that his new look was disguise enough. The flashlight had reduced the world to inches.
“No sleeping on the beach.” The light trailed down to the brown paper bag of bourbon. “No drinking, either.”
Part of him wanted to panic, to run wild, but to his surprise, his mind was calmly putting things together. Not cornered, not caught. The man wasn’t looking for him. He was just rousting a drunk. Still, if he asked for ID, or wanted to give him a ticket . . .
“I’m sorry, Officer. I’m not a bum or anything. I just . . . me and my girl.” He hesitated, found emotion easy to summon. “I lost her.” Almost choked the words out. “I lost her.”
The flashlight hovered on him for a long moment. Daniel could almost hear the cop thinking, taking in the clothing, the expensive haircut. Calculating the hassle of running in a regular civilian with a broken heart and a buzz, the civilian whining and crying and maybe even puking.
“Just move along, all right? You can’t stay here.”
Daniel nodded. “Sure. Sorry.” He brushed sand off the messenger bag and struggled to his feet.
