by Marcus Sakey
Because he’s chasing.
The BMW shredded the highway, up to 80 in seconds, the road a black ribbon. The nerves in his fingers and feet seemed to connect through the car to the road itself, like he was surfing the blacktop, flying over it, topping 110 now, and behind, far in the rearview, red and blue lights. He had a head start, but the cop was coming fast, others no doubt bearing down from all directions.
Think, goddamnit, think!
He tore around a curve, houses and garages and bridges and trees all blurring into a smear of late-night evergreen, darkness pressing down. Half a mile ahead, a narrow lane pulled off.
Any animal can run. It takes a man to think.
He bit his lip, clenched his fists, and turned off the headlights. Took his hand off the stick long enough to reach the settings knob for the onboard computer system. Twist, press, Options, twist, press, Lighting, twist, press, Disabled. The running lights and headlight halos snapped off. Night swooped down. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, Daniel worked the clutch and downshifted into third gear. The engine screamed and bucked, the car actually hopping, rear tires skidding. He almost hit the brakes by instinct, stopped himself just in time. The car swerved wildly, but he kept it on the road, forced it into second, the needle plummeting, down to twenty by the time he hit the lane. He spun hard right. The car slewed sideways, the tires leaving the ground.
The world ahead of him was geometries of darkness: triangles for trees, a rectangle that might be a barn. He desperately wanted to turn on the headlights, but didn’t, just forced it into first gear and took a chance, aiming at the maybe-barn. The side of the building was fifteen feet away when he jerked the parking brake. The BMW hopped and groaned and shuddered to a stop.
In the fallen silence his heartbeat was impossibly loud. His hands didn’t shake, they vibrated. He took them off the wheel, knit the fingers together as though he were praying. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fu—
The cop blew by on US-1, a frenzied fury of blue and red and Dopplering siren, big as the world and then gone.
Daniel’s breath came ragged. He clenched his fists together till the knuckles creaked. Jesus. Why had he run?
More important, why was he chasing you?
Who are you? Who were you before you woke up on that beach?
He sat for a moment, as long as he could make himself. Then he turned on his headlights, put the car in gear, and pulled back out onto the road. Outside the windows, the silhouettes of pines loomed, shaggy forms cut from a cloth of stars. Despite the punishment, the BMW seemed okay.
The cop hadn’t doubled back yet, but he would. Time to get off this road. Daniel turned at the next intersection that looked like it might go somewhere. Out here, the police wouldn’t have many resources—no helicopters, no roadblocks. The key was to get some distance without blundering into them.
He punched up the onboard navigation system, zoomed out on the map. How come I know how to do this, how to turn off my running lights, but I don’t remember—later. He scanned the map, eyes flickering between it and the road. If he went north instead of west, he could pick up US-9, ride that up to I-95. With a little luck, he could clear the state in four, five hours.
The gun. He’d left the Glock in the hotel.
Want to go back for it?
He pushed down on the accelerator.
An hour and a half later, Bangor was a glow on the horizon. A sign welcomed him, announced that the population was 31,473; another pointed toward Bangor International Airport. Following the arrow, he found himself in a stretch of low-slung chain hotels, an Econo Lodge, a Howard Johnson, a Ramada. They had the look of places people came to hang themselves. He picked the Ho-Jo at random, pulled around back. The parking lot was only a third full.
His breath was fog. A plane took off half a mile away, the roar loud, red and green wing lights passing overhead as Daniel squatted behind a minivan with a bumper sticker announcing the owner’s kid was an honor student at Hermon High. He fanned out the keys on his ring, chose the slenderest one, and fit it into the first screw.
The cold stiffened his fingers and made him curse, and by the time he was done, he wasn’t sure the key would be much use as a key. But it did okay to attach the Maine plates to his BMW.
He had a pang of guilt, but pushed it down. You might need to do worse than steal some license plates. Better get used to that idea.
Boston was about 250 miles. From there he could head west. No choice now. No explaining his condition and throwing himself on the mercy of the police. The only thing left to do was go to a place that scared the hell out of him.
Home.
W
hen her alarm went off, Sophie Zeigler was in her kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting with Mick Jagger like the old friends they were. Not that she knew him personally, but in her flowers-in-your-hair days she’d seen Mick and the boys play a dozen times, and her only lesbian experience had been scored by Beggars Banquet, so “old friend” seemed as appropriate a term as any. In the dream, Sophie had leaned over to refill her mug, and when she’d turned back, Mick had unzipped his leather pants and was peeing in her sink. He looked sheepish but didn’t stop, and she was thinking how this was the kind of stunt that turned singers into rock stars, and how tiresome it must be to maintain. It was one thing to be twenty-five and beautiful as you hurled a TV out the window of the Chateau Marmont, but once your pubes were curling gray, it was time to call a halt.
Then the drumming of his urine against the stainless steel sink became the droning buzz of the alarm, and the dream evaporated, the aroma of coffee seeming to float in its wake. She slapped the clock to silence. What a weird way to start the day. Everything she was dealing with, and this was what her subconscious had for her? Dreams about Mick Jagger’s sagging testicles, and memories of clumsy girl-gropings almost forty-years gone?
Sophie swung her legs out of bed, rubbed sleep from her eyes. Padded to the window and pulled open the curtains. Early sunlight bathed her garden and the green square of her lawn. Some people griped about L.A. not having seasons, but there were two: “gorgeous” and “absolutely freaking gorgeous.”
On a mat at the foot of her bed, she worked through a quick yoga routine. A couple of sun salutations, down-dog into cobra, just to limber up, build some heat. Caught her body in the mirror as she stretched, and smiled. People talked about sixty being the new fifty, but she was shooting for forty-five. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth while the water warmed up, then slipped out of her panties, kicked them into the hamper, and got in the shower.
God , that felt good. She turned, tilted her head to wash her hair. Okay, so. A long day. She was still dealing with the sheriff’s department, trying to maintain a stonewall that got weaker every day. Plus there was her more traditional work. Today she had lunch with a client, a rapper-turned-action-star who released records as Too G, but whose real name was Tudy, and who called his maid to squash spiders. That would be followed by the day’s main event, a “friendly chat” at Universal, who had somehow gotten Don Cheadle interested in the script already promised to Tudy. The tricky part was that they hadn’t signed papers with her client yet—blaming that on their lawyers, Hollywood Stall Tactic 514—so technically she didn’t have much to work with. And of course, Cheadle was a truly remarkable actor, while Tudy was . . . well, a rap star. But the Universal VP owed her. So, she thought as she turned off the water and pulled open the curtain, if she could remind him of that without overplaying—
There was a stranger leaning against her sink.
Sophie staggered back, fumbling for the wall, her thoughts scattering in different directions, processing the fact that she didn’t know the man, that he must have broken in, that she was naked and dripping, that he had something shiny and metal tucked into the front of his pants. Her hand slapped the shower tile, slipped, caught.
“Do me a favor,” the man said, “and don’t scream, okay, sister?” 5
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.