by Amy Cross
I blink a couple of times and realize that Sharon's face has dissipated; it's Barbara sitting in the bed again, staring blankly at me. I swear to God, I feel as if I'm losing my mind right now.
"What did you have to do, John?" she continues. "Who the hell is Sharon?"
"I don't know anyone named Sharon," I reply firmly. "As it happens, I've never even met anyone named Sharon in my entire life. Not to my knowledge, anyway. I mean, I suppose in all my years on the road I might have, at some point, and completely innocently, bumped into someone who happens to have that name. I'd be a liar if I said I was certain I've never met a Sharon, and you know I don't want to lie to you, honey, but the truth is..." I pause as I try to work out what, exactly, I'm trying to say. "There's no Sharon," I add eventually, "and even if there is, she's someone I've met by accident and not even paid attention to, and therefore not someone who, uh, I'd be thinking of when I'm trying to make soft, sweet love to my one and only, beautiful, gorgeous, wonderful wife."
I wait for her to reply.
She stares at me.
I swallow hard, even though my throat is dry.
"You're a bad liar," she says eventually, before rolling over and turning the bedside lamp off. "We'll talk about this in the morning."
I stand in darkness, wondering whether I should try to say something else. Finally, realizing that I need some time to think of a better explanation, I turn and head wearily over to the door, before stepping out into the brightly-lit hallway. As I pull the bedroom door shut, I can't help but sigh. I've always prided myself on my ability to separate out the different elements of my life. How is it possible, then, that such a well-organized and disciplined mind could suddenly start to make so many goddamn fuck-ups?
Slowly, achingly, I trudge downstairs.
Katherine Shaw
"My first memory?" Angela says, staring into space for a moment. "I don't know. All my memories are kind of the same, so it's hard to separate them out or say which one comes first."
It's just after 8am and Angela is being interviewed by a police psychiatrist. Jordan Carver and I are sitting in on the interview, although Carver has made it abundantly clear to me that we're not allowed to interfere or say anything during this entire session; apparently he's worried about some bullshit issue concerning fragile witnesses or something like that. To be honest, as he droned on and on while we were driving over to the hospital, I kind of zoned out. He's blatantly testing me, to see if I can keep my mouth shut, and I'm determined to make him realize that he doesn't understand me at all.
"Tell me about a strong memory, then," the psychiatrist continues. "When I ask you to think back to an important moment in your life, what's the very first thing that comes to mind?"
Angela pauses, before glancing over at me.
"Don't look at them," the psychiatrist says, her voice hushed and calm. "Look at me, Angela."
Angela turns to her.
"Tell me about a strong memory."
"There was..." Angela pauses again, as if she's reliving a moment from her past. "We used to live in a kind of barn," she continues eventually. "We each had our space, but not much, and we were chained to the wall. There were these bars and..." Another pause. "We never really moved. Some of us could only move our heads, most of us could use our arms, and one or two could make their legs move, but... Occasionally, one of the others would get taken out and we'd never see her again. I don't know what happened to the ones who left."
"Who took the girls out?" the psychiatrist asks.
"The man," Angela replies. "Sometimes, later, it was Manuel, but Manuel was different. He cared about us. He wanted us to be okay. That's why he let us go."
"Did you ever talk to him?"
She shakes her head.
"Then how do you know his name was Manuel?"
"I heard the other man call him that once," she continues. "There were two other men. I never heard their names. One of them only came in to see us a few times, but I think he was in charge. He told the other men what to do, and he was always around when one of the other girls got taken away." She looks down at the floor for a moment. "I remember leaving the barn once. I had to go in a car. I'd been taught some things to say, and we went to a place, it was a bit like this."
"A hospital?" the psychiatrist asks.
Angela nods. "But smaller."
"A doctor's surgery, maybe?"
"I don't know."
"And what happened there?"
"I had an injection."
Feeling a nudging sensation on my arm, I realize that Jordan Carver is trying to get my attention. When I look at him, he indicates that he wants to speak to me outside; figuring that I should be an obedient and pliable little thing for a while, just to piss him off, I follow him out into the corridor.
"Let's hear it," he says, keeping his voice down as Angela continues to be questioned in the next room.
"What?" I ask.
"You're supposed to be some kind of genius," he continues, "so surprise me. Help me make sense of this mess."
"I think it's tragic," I reply, determined to surprise him. "The poor girl -"
"Just tell me what you really think," he continues, interrupting me. "This barn where they were held. The trip to see a doctor. The injection. What the hell was going on?"
"I think they were being farmed," I reply, figuring I should try to impress him with a decent theory. "I think someone was holding these girls, possibly from birth, and raising them until they were adults so that..." I pause for a moment as I realize that I'm not entirely certain what to say next. The theory is still coming together in my head, and it's going to take a while before all the pieces fit together perfectly. Still, I'm convinced I'm on the right track.
"Some kind of sex ring?" he asks.
I shake my head.
"Then what?"
"Identity," I reply. "What if these girls were being kept so that their identities could be cultivated and then sold to people who, for whatever reason, needed to disappear?"
"That's insane."
"Is it? If someone acquired a bunch of babies somehow and raised them dirt-cheap in a barn, he or she could sell their whole identities once they were old enough."
"You're talking about something that would take decades to come to fruition," he replies. "No-one would go to so much trouble for a pay-off they might never even get to see."
"I still think it's possible," I tell him. "All the pieces fit. You just have to make a bit of a leap and accept that somewhere out there, there might be someone who's patient enough to set something like this up. Most criminals are in it for the short-haul; they want a quick pay-out and they want to get away with the money. But what if this guy, whoever he is, understands that he can take it slow and eventually sell the identities of these girls for six or even seven-figure sums once they've reached adulthood?"
"Is this an example of your instinctive leaps, Detective Shaw?" he asks.
"It's the only thing that makes sense to me right now," I reply. "If you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear it."
He stares at me for a moment, and it's clear that he's trying to decide whether or not he trusts me. "Fine," he says eventually. "I'm going to keep things open for now, but I have to admit, your idea is just so crazy, it might actually have some truth to it."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I mutter.
"You've managed to surprise me, Shaw," he continues. "Not a lot of people are able to do that."
Although I force myself to smile, I can't help but feel a little dirty; the last thing I wanted to do was to help this asshole have a good day, but at the same time I also wanted to shatter his expectations. I guess he's one of those people who can find the positive in any situation, which is an outlook that I find to be extremely annoying. In many ways, it seems that Jordan Carver is my complete opposite.
"If you're right about this," he continues, "we need to get a handle on it fast. All the victims who escaped were women, which means there are probably more p
eople caught up in this. If someone's selling identities, males are likely to be more profitable than females, so I'd be surprised if there wasn't a whole warehouse full of men going through exactly the same ordeal."
"We need to find this Manuel guy," I reply. "If he chose to let the girls loose, he might be the weak link in the operation, although..." I pause for a moment as I try to work out what's really happening here. This Manuel figure doesn't quite make sense to me.
"We need more than a name to go on," Carver replies.
"Forget it," I continue as I'm hit by a sudden moment of realization. "Manuel's dead."
"What makes you say that?"
"Because he hasn't got in touch with anyone," I continue. "He didn't even stick around to help the women get away properly. Most likely, he turned and ran, and before he could reach safety, his bosses picked him up. Given the fact that he must have cost them millions of dollars, I imagine he's suffered a very slow and very painful death by now."
"Or he just decided to hide," Carver suggests.
"He's dead," I reply. "I'm certain. It's the only thing that makes sense. Otherwise, he'd have come to us for protection."
"You're making a bit of a leap here," he replies.
"I guarantee I'm right, though," I tell him.
"I'll get Angela to work with someone to produce a composite of the men who were holding her," Carver replies. "I'll also see if we can get the other women talking. Angela seems to be the most cooperative so far, but I'm sure we can at least get something from the others, even if it's only confirmation of everything Angela's telling us."
"While you're doing that," I reply, "I'll go get pizza."
He stares at me.
"I'm tired," I continue, hoping that I've surprised him a little. "I think I've done pretty well this morning, don't you? First few hours back on the job and I've already got further than any of the rest of you. I deserve pizza."
"Fine," he replies with a faint, taunting smile. "But I'm coming with you."
John
"I'm going to the office today," I say, sitting at the kitchen table and watching as Barbara pours herself a glass of juice. "I don't know how long I'll be, but I should be back for dinner. I think I'll just grab lunch while I'm out, though. Is that okay?"
Studiously ignoring me, Barbara puts the carton back in the fridge before heading to the door.
"I'm sorry about last night," I add.
She stops for a moment, and then finally she turns to me. "What exactly are you sorry for?" she asks. It's the first thing she's said to me all morning, so at least the silent treatment seems to be at an end.
"All of it," I reply. "Everything."
"Be specific. What are you sorry for, John? What do you think you did that made me get upset?"
"I'm sorry I called you Sharon," I continue. "I don't know where that name came from, but it just seemed to pop into my head from nowhere. I actually was thinking just now about the fact that the other day, in the newspaper, I was reading an article about Ariel Sharon, the former Israeli leader, and I suppose it's possible that maybe -"
"Stop lying," she says firmly, with a hint of tears in her eyes.
"I'm just trying to -"
"So in the middle of our awkward, failed attempt to make love," she replies, "you inadvertently called out the name of a former Israeli prime minister?"
I open my mouth to reply, but suddenly I realize that maybe this isn't the finest explanation I could have come up with.
"You're a Catholic, John," she mutters, before turning and heading through to the hallway. "And a liar too."
"Barbara -" I call out, before Claire comes hurrying through to the kitchen in a typical rush.
"Hey, Dad," she says, "got anything fun lined up today?"
"Not particularly," I reply with a sigh.
"Going out?"
"I'm wearing a suit, aren't I?"
"What time are you gonna be back?"
"I have no idea."
"But if you had to guess."
Glancing over at her, I realize that there's a hint of suspicion in her eyes. She seems strangely keen to know my plans, and I can't help but worry that she's trying oh-so-casually to get a better idea of my movements.
"I honestly don't know," I tell her, forcing myself not to get too paranoid.
"Do you know what's got Mom so mad?" she continues. "She's acting like there's a wasp up her ass. More than usual."
"It's nothing."
She turns to me. "So you do know?"
"It's just parent stuff," I continue. "A little disagreement over nothing. It'll blow over pretty soon. It's just your mother reacting a little vividly to something I may or may not have said. She's a little stressed at the moment and unfortunately the smallest things can set her off. If I were you, I'd try to avoid too many conversations with her today."
"Is it my fault you and Mom are fighting?" she asks, staring at me with a pained expression for a moment before finally a smile crosses her face. "Relax, Dad. I know it's not my fault. It's probably yours. I mean, no offense, but you can be a bit of a jerk sometimes."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I reply, getting to my feet and grabbing my briefcase. "If you must know, I'm going to go and spend all day sitting in an airless little office, going over the figures from my last trip. It's a dull job, but someone has to do it, and I might lose my bonus if I allow even the slightest error into my reports."
"Sounds boring," she replies, taking a bite from an apple.
"Absolutely," I continue, "but after all these years, I've kind of come to appreciate the boring parts of life. They allow me to rest my head a little." I head to the door, before turning back to Claire. "Let me give you some advice," I add. "If you can find a way to keep from getting bored while you're performing menial tasks, you'll never struggle to hold down a job. Things like filing, checking forms, performing extremely repetitive actions over and over and over again all day long... Most people struggle with that kind of thing, but if you can handle it, you'll always be able to slot yourself into the workforce somewhere."
"Thank you," she replies flatly, "for that very inspiring little pep-talk."
"You're welcome," I tell her, before heading through to the hallway and then, finally, making my way out through the front door. It's a glorious morning, made even better by the feeling that I finally managed to impart some fatherly advice to my daughter. Claire's a difficult girl at times, and her teenage years have really brought out a kind of insolence that I'd hoped she might avoid. Still, if she started listening to her father a little more than usual, that wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing. The girl has to learn how to comport herself in society.
Stopping next to the car, I pause for a moment. I feel as if I've forgotten something important, but in my current agitated state, I neglected to bring my diary. Still, whatever it was, it can't be too important.
A few minutes later, as I pull out of the driveway and head toward the intersection, I can't help thinking about Tommy Symonds. It's such a silly thing, but I keep replaying the moment when I first acquired him from his mother. Of all the children I've purchased and raised over the years, Tommy was the one who really stood out; I suppose it's because, in a slightly strange way, he looked a little like my grandfather. Now that Tommy is dead, and another man is out there using his identity, I feel strangely saddened by the thought that perhaps this whole operation is getting to the point where it needs to be wound down. I've been selling these kids' identities for many years now, but I honestly believe that in another five or maybe six years, I'll be able to retire and -
"What the hell is that noise?" I mutter as I suddenly realize that something's rattling on the underside of the car. Pulling over at the side of the road, I hurry out of the driver's seat and make my way around to the curb before getting down on my hands and knees; leaning further and further under the car, I finally spot some kind of metal box attached to the bottom of the fender, and there's a small green light flashing in the shadows. My firs
t thought is that it might be some kind of explosive device, but as I force myself to look more closely, I realize that there's another, equally sinister, explanation.
Someone's trying to track me.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter as I sit back and look along the sidewalk.
Filled with panic, I take a deep breath and try to stay calm.
Someone has attached a tracking device to my goddamn car, presumably so they can record my every movement. My mind races with possibilities as I try to work out who the hell would have done something like this: the most obvious suspects are the police, who might finally have begun to suspect my involvement in this whole mess; then again, since the police are too dumb to have made that kind of connection, I suppose there's a danger that Leonard is trying to double-cross me; alternatively, a rival gang might be trying to move onto my patch. Finally, there's -
I take a deep breath.
Suddenly my mind clears and I realize exactly who's responsible for this.
"Claire," I whisper.
It's true. She's a smart kid, and it certainly wouldn't be beyond her abilities to order some kind of cheap tracking device from a website. Right now, she's probably sitting at home, watching a flashing light on an online map that shows exactly where I've parked. Hell, I'll be lucky if she hasn't got a camera hidden inside the car as well. The question, therefore, is how long she's had this device in place, and whether she's managed to gather any particularly incriminating information.
Does she know everything?
Does she even suspect?
More importantly, does she have evidence?
Forcing myself to stay calm, I realize that I have to leave the device in place. If I move it, she'll realize that I'm onto her, and I don't want to have any kind of confrontation, at least not yet. Still, it's obvious now that Claire is becoming a major problem, and as much as it pains me to realize such a thing, I've got a very strong feeling that I'm going to have to deal with this issue as quickly as possible.
"Damn it," I mutter as I get to my feet and brush grass off my trousers. It looks like I'm going to have to get rid of Claire as soon as possible. This is the absolute last thing I need to be dealing with right now.