The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes

by Marcus Sakey

  They’re coming for you. He struggled against the sheets, adrenaline pounding through his body. “Who is it?”

  “Manager.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Money for today. Or you gotta clear out.”

  “Yeah, ah.” Daniel forced an exhale. It was just a dream. His waking mind had heard the banging, integrated it, that was all. Guardian angels weren’t on shows called Candy Girls. “One second.”

  He pulled on his jeans and stained undershirt, then opened the door. The manager looked him up and down, took in the funky hair and the pillow marks. “You okay?”

  “I just woke up.”

  “After one.” The tone part contempt, part befuddlement.

  “Yeah.” Daniel rubbed at his eyes. “Is it?” He glanced around the room, saw the deposit envelope. “Forty, right?”

  The man reached for the twenties, and Daniel noticed splotches of color under his nails, ocher and chartreuse and evergreen. “Hey, you’re the husband. The painter.”

  “Ayup,” he said in the same tone of voice he might have used to admit to stealing from a church donation basket.

  “I really like your work. That canvas in the office, and this one.” He gestured at the lonely promontory, the salt spray, the shattered heavens. “They’re terrific.”

  The manager’s ears flushed red. He nodded, said nothing.

  One thing you had to give Maine people, Daniel thought, no one could accuse them of babbling. “You ever have a show?”

  “On television?”

  “No, I mean an art show. In a gallery.”

  “I.” He didn’t seem to know what to say. “No.”

  “You should. You could probably sell these. They’re so vivid, you know? Evocative. They’re lonely and sad, but in a distinctive way.” He realized he was rambling, but it felt good to talk to someone, anyone. “I bet you’d be surprised.”

  The guy looked away, muttered something that might have been a thanks. Then he said, “Checkout is noon,” and walked quickly away.

  Daniel watched him go, this lumbering, quiet man. Living in the sticks, painting cries of desolation he never intended to sell. So shy that a word of praise made him squirm. In bed he and his wife must be about as much fun as a tax audit.

  But at least he knows who he is.

  In the bathroom Daniel splashed water on his face, dunked his head under the faucet. “So,” he said to his reflection, “we’re a couple of good-looking dudes. What’s our plan?”

  The mirror offered no suggestions.

  Well, okay then. Two options came to mind. He could go to the police and ask for help. Or he could get back in his car and drive to Los Angeles. The police were probably the safest route. But was it that simple?

  Daniel grabbed his keys, went to the parking lot. The gun was where he’d left it. He stared for a moment. Glanced around. No one seemed to be watching, but still.

  There was a crumpled Wendy’s bag on the floor, and he shook it out, dumping a hamburger wrapper and a napkin. Hesitantly, he took the pistol, slid it into the bag, then locked the car and returned to his room.

  He turned on the lamp on the bedside table to get a look at the gun. A Glock 17 with the trademark triple-action trigger safety system, no hammer, drop-safe. Tenifer-hardened for maximum scratch and corrosion resistance. He thumbed the magazine release, saw that it was fully loaded with 9mm rounds.

  Apparently, I’m comfortable with guns.

  That didn’t mean anything, really. Lots of people were. Still, there was something ominous in the situation. Waking with, what, amnesia, some sort of fugue? And in the glove box of his expensive car, a high-quality semiautomatic pistol.

  He raised the Glock to his nose, sniffed it. It smelled of carbon. It’s been fired. Fired and not cleaned since.

  How long ago? No way to say. It might have been nothing, just a trip to the range. Or it might have been used in an interstate crime spree. What if he had the gun because he was in danger? Or because he was dangerous?

  I don’t feel dangerous.

  But the police might disagree. Until he knew what was going on, who he’d been and what he’d done, talking to them was a huge risk.

  Which left Los Angeles. There had to be answers waiting there. And yet the thought of returning to California prompted a swell of guilt and shame and horror. He couldn’t say why, but the feeling was unshakable. Like waking up with a hangover, dead certain that he’d made an ass of himself during his blackout hours. For some reason, home scared the hell out of him.

  So what, you want to just hide?

  He set the Glock on the nightstand, thought better of it, pulled out the drawer, and set it atop the Gideon bible. Rubbed at his eyes.

  Here’s the plan. You already paid for the room. Stay. Get some rest. Stress and exhaustion have to be part of the problem. So take it easy today.

  Tomorrow, act like a man.

  D

  eputy Chris Dundridge was raised by NYPD Blue.

  Everyone said his father had been a lovable guy, quick with a joke, always up for another round of Dewar’s, a hell of a baseball player. Of course, Dad had vanished right around the time Chris was starting tee ball, so his own memories were faded photographs. The two of them sitting on the end of a dock, the waves spitting white and green around the pilings. The smell of tobacco and Aqua Velva. That good almost-sick feeling in his belly when Dad tossed him high.

  There hadn’t been any fights, no screaming or beatings. Dad had just ruffled his hair, boarded a fishing boat, and never come home. No accident, no storm, no letter, just on at Port Clyde and off somewhere else.

  So Mom had taken a second job, and Chris had started watching a lot of television. The old shows that ran in syndication after school, Miami Vice, 21 Jump Street, even CHiPs. After high school, he’d gone to the Maine Criminal Justice Academy, watching cop shows all the while. He loved The Shield, he loved The Wire, he even watched CSI, piece of shit that was. Chris was ready to be a world-weary lawman with a weapon on his hip. He wanted to catch bad guys. He wanted to work big cases, stare darkness in the face and not blink.

  Problem was, he lived in Washington County, Maine. They didn’t make cop shows about places like Washington County. Not unless you counted Andy Griffith.

  He steered the cruiser with one hand, popped the last of his bologna sandwich in his mouth with the other, then brushed the crumbs off his uniform. Cherryfield Hardware slid past, and the owner stopped locking up long enough to raise a hand at him. Chris threw back a halfhearted salute.

  He had feelers out all over the country, but it was your classic catch-22. Without having worked a high crime area, he didn’t have the qualifications to work a high crime area. Which left him where?

  “Fucked,” Chris muttered. “Fucked, fucked, fucked.” “Say again?” his radio squawked.

  Shit. He grabbed the radio, saw the button had stuck again.

  “Sorry about that, Doreen, my mic.”

  “I hear that language again, I’m going to wash your mouth out.” Chris grinned. “What? I said ‘trucks.’ ”

  “Yeah, trucked, trucked, trucked.”

  “Anything happening?”

  “All quiet in our little corner of heaven.”

  “Spectacular,” he said.

  Maybe he needed to shake things up some. A tour in the army,

  he’d be able to write his ticket. It would mean dodging RPGs for a couple years. But that might be better than writing drunk tickets till his eyesight gave, or hanging at the Ten Pin, watching the same girls get older. Chasing jihadis might not be the same as chasing criminals, but it beat the hell out of the alternative.

  They’d post him in Afghanistan or Iraq, of course. But what the hell. Get out, see the world. Hear a muezzin’s call. Fire a fifty-caliber. Learn Arabic. Maybe even be an MP. Police work with military technology, ooh-rah. Not that he wanted to chase American soldiers, but he’d be after the ones who went crazy, the kind in the news stories, the ones who raped gi
rls or killed innocent shopkeepers . . .

  Chris Dundridge was halfway through his nightly tour of imaginary duty when he spotted the silver BMW parked at the Pines Motel.

  5

  EXT. ABBOT KINNEY STREET—EVENING

  Loud POP MUSIC plays. Architectural Digest homes nestle next to ra mshackle teardow ns. Wet suits are draped over balcony railings.

  A convertible rips down the street, turns at the corner.

  INT. MADDY’S CONVERTIBLE—CONTINUOUS

  The music is coming from MADDY SWEET’s stereo. It cuts off mid-lyric as she pulls halfway into a parking spot and jumps out of the car. Her red hair flies behind her.

  EXT. CANDY GIRLS HOUSE—CONTINUOUS

  EMILY SWEET stands at the end of the porch, facing away.

  MADDY (O.S.)

  Em?

  Emily stiffens, but doesn’t turn. Maddy climbs, pauses, then walks behind her sister and puts a hand on her arm.

  MADDY (CONT’D)

  Talk to me.

  EMILY

  What do you want me to say? MADDY

  You could call Tara something that rhymes with “runt.”

  Emily snorts a laugh. She faces her sister. EMILY

  You heard, huh?

  MADDY

  Everybody heard, honey.

  (catches herself)

  That’s not what—I just mean that it— EMILY

  It’s okay.

  (it’s clearly not)

  MADDY

  Tara’s never been concerned about her karma.

  EMILY

  Not her. Jake. Why would he tank my audition?

  MADDY

  It wasn’t Jake. The director, he and Tara . . .

  Emily stares, understanding dawning. EMILY

  Wow. And I thought a house had landed on the Wicked West of the West.

  (a beat)

  Wait, how do you—

  MADDY

  Jake called. He’s upset.

  EMILY

  So upset that he called you.

  MADDY

  Life is scary to some people.

  EMILY

  Then maybe they get what they deserve. (shakes her head)

  Life is scary to me too. Doesn’t mean I hide from it.

  MADDY He loves you.

  EMILY

  So why does he need you to tell me? Emily stalks off the porch.

  MADDY

  Wait—

  Emily doesn’t.

  5

  As Emily Sweet walked away and the credits rolled, Daniel leaned back. His head throbbed, a wicked headache coming on.

  The show meant something. It had to. Emily talking about life being scary, about the need to face things—it was exactly what he’d been wrestling with all day. Like she could read his mind.

  Sure. You’re getting messages from the television. Tinfoil hat ready?

  It was just his subconscious mind. Desperate for comfort, it was fixating on the first woman he’d seen. A mother/whore thing, sweet Emily Sweet promising to save him, promising to guide him. Daniel shook his head, then regretted it as pain ice-picked him. He eased himself flat, rubbed at his neck.

  You’re losing it, man. If you even had it to begin with.

  Daniel closed his eyes and imagined Emily beside him, putting cool rags on his forehead, whispering in his ear, telling him that this would pass. That he was a good guy whose sins weren’t worse than anyone else’s. That he had nothing to fear.

  That it was all going to be okay.

  5

  A silver BMW M5, with California plates.

  Could it be? Could it be the same car?

  Chris stared through the windshield, willing himself to remember. It had been one of the Teletypes, he knew that much, came in a couple of days back. Doreen printed them all and put them in a wire basket in the break room, next to the coffee machine, the idea being that coppers could check them during downtime. Of course, no one but him did; after all, how many fugitives ended up in Washington County?

  They got Teletypes from all over the country, and the details tended to blur, but this one he’d paid more attention to, coming as it had from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Homicide if he recalled right, though mostly he’d noticed the car, a sweet ride, BMW M5, silver. Just like one parked here, sporting California plates.

  What was the guy’s name? It had had an upscale ring to it, he remembered. A little German or Dutch sounding, maybe. He’d know it if he heard it.

  So call Doreen, have her dig out the Teletype and read you the info. Yeah, and if he was wrong, endure a week of jokes, the others calling him Serpico, prank calls on the radio, no thanks. He could drive there himself and check it, but that meant half an hour to Machias, maybe twenty minutes if he ran on sirens the whole way, and likely find the guy gone.

  You’d know the name if you heard it . . .

  Chris grabbed his radio and climbed out of the cruiser. Northern darkness blanketed the world. He could see his breath as he walked for the door. It wasn’t much of a lobby, but the Pines wasn’t much of a motel. The desk was empty, and he rapped on it. “Hello?”

  There was movement behind a beaded curtain, and a woman came out, her expression wary, the way he’d noticed a lot of people got when they saw a cop. “Yes? Help you?”

  “I’m Deputy Chris Dundridge,” he said. “Washington County Sheriffs.”

  She nodded.

  “That BMW in the lot. Do you know who it belongs to?”

  “What’s this about?”

  “Police business.”

  “Don’t you need a warrant?”

  “You don’t want a dangerous guy staying here, do you?” He paused, then smiled, said, “Besides. No one needs to know you told me.”

  She hesitated, then said, “He checked in yesterday. Paid cash.”

  “What’s his name?”

  The clicking of keys. “Hayes. Daniel Hayes.”

  That was the name, Chris was sure of it. His blood sang. This was the lucky draw he’d been waiting for. Capturing a fugitive for the LASD would move his resume to the top of the pile. He forced himself to keep the joy off his face, nodded, said, “Room number?”

  “Seven. But listen, I don’t want—”

  Chris ignored her, started down the hall, unsnapping his weapon as he went. His fingers tingled. The numbers on the doors ran upward, one, two, three. The floor was linoleum, scuffed from a thousand pairs of hunting boots. Should he call it in? Four, five, six. Regulations were clear, but he didn’t want anyone else claiming credit. Here it was, lucky number seven. The light was on under the door, and he could hear the TV faintly.

  The man was in his room. No need for backup.

  5

  The ice machine rattled like a spoon grinding in a disposal. Daniel leaned on the button, watching cubes drop one at a time, the racket doing nothing for his headache. But half an hour with an ice cloth wrapped on his eyeballs should. Then grab a last supper, turn in, and tomorrow, make some decisions.

  The machine grudgingly hawked up a handful of cubes at once. Good enough. He yanked open the heavy metal door and stepped back into the hallway. Cradling the ice bucket, he rounded the corner. Twenty feet away, someone stood at the door of his room. A cop, broad-shouldered and tough-looking.

  Daniel froze. What was a cop doing here?

  Before he could think of an answer, the guy took a deep breath and drew his gun, Jesus, drew his gun, and with the other fist pounded hard enough to rattle the door in its frame and yelled, “Police! Open up.”

  Daniel stood with one foot in the air and his mouth hanging open and his head pounding.

  “Washington Country Sheriffs. Open the door!”

  And in his head, her voice, whispering. They’re coming for you.

  “Goddamnit,” the cop yelled, “open this door, Daniel!”

  At the sound of his name, his knees went wobbly and his hand slipped on the ice bucket. It spun as it fell to the floor, the cubes tumbling out, pinging against the linoleum, skitt
ering silver marbles.

  The deputy whirled at the sound. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-four, face pale and pupils wide. For a fraction of a heartbeat their eyes locked. Then the gun started to come up.

  Fight-or-flight took over. Daniel turned, heart pumping fire. Planted one hand on the corner of the wall and pushed himself into a run.

  “Freeze!”

  Do what he says. What are you doing? Stop!

  Only he didn’t, he went faster, feet slamming into a sprint, headache buried under a surge of adrenaline. For some reason, he found himself thinking of the painting in the lobby. He hurled himself down the hallway. His hands hit the door bar and sent it flying open with a mule kick. Cold evening air that smelled of sap. Behind him, he heard pounding footsteps, and then a screeching sound and a curse. He risked a glance over his shoulder, saw the cop frozen mid-fall above the dropped ice, legs kicking cartoon circles.

  Daniel ran.

  Pine trees pressed against the brick wall, needles scratching at his hands and face. He blundered forward, dark shadow and darker ground, then burst around the edge of the building, half-expecting to find the whole police force, lights spinning and guns pointed, but there was just the one cruiser. He sprinted for the BMW, pinballing off the pickup next to it. Jammed a shaking hand in his front pocket, yanked out the keys too fast and lost his grip. He could hear the cop yelling again, not at him, calling for backup, saying words from television shows, officer needs assistance, and all units, and suspect on foot, all muffled as Daniel bent to scrape his fingers across the gravel, come on, come on, the keys had to be—there. He snagged them, beeped the alarm, piled in, and was slamming the stick into reverse as the cop came around the corner of the building. Daniel floored it, spinning the wheel hard, then threw it into first without braking. The car jerked to a stop and then surged forward, ten cylinders screaming. There was the crack of a gunshot behind him, holy fuck, then another, and ahead a narrow strip of grass with two pine trees and the sad roadside sign for the motel, and he swung away from the trees and clipped the sign, sparks and plastic bursting, block letters flying into the night, a scraping sound and a momentary feeling the car was going to get stuck, and then the tires bit blacktop and lurched and squealed and caught. US-1, two lousy lanes, his heart on fire, running like every frightened thing, the quiet calm part of himself screaming, telling him to stop, asking him why, Jesus, why was he running?