by Marcus Sakey
He took a deep breath, shook out his arm, and launched into a run. He put on as much speed as he could, leaping at the last second to plant a foot against the wall. His momentum carried him far enough that he could grab the top and pull his legs up and over before dropping to the grass beyond.
Goddamn, but that felt good.
The yard was broad and brightly lit, floodlights spilling up the undersides of trees. He stayed low and moved to the perimeter. One nice thing about conspicuous wealth, it made for enough space to be inconspicuous. No one with a house in Malibu wanted to acknowledge that anyone else lived there, and there was a thick tree line between this house and its nearest neighbor. Daniel kept to it. A dog barked from inside the house and his heart jumped, but he kept moving until he reached another fence, this one oriented more to privacy than to security.
Ten seconds later, he was in his backyard.
A gust of wind tugged at the avocado tree, the leaves whispering against one another. Broken branches were scattered on the grass where he’d tried his hand at flying. He smiled ruefully, then went to the back door. The third key on his ring unlocked it.
He started to fumble for the light switch, caught himself. Idiot. He took a moment to catch his breath and let his eyes adjust. Then he crept through the kitchen into the living room.
In the dark, the house was at once familiar and strange, a longlost friend whose face had been weathered and changed by time. He moved slowly, the faint light through the windows silvering everything. The frames on the mantel were black shapes, but he was pretty sure which one he wanted. He picked it up, walked to the front window, tilted it to catch the light.
There they were, frolicking in the surf, again, forever. The date was written in the bottom corner. May 23, 2003. Right. Good thing to remember.
Brilliant white light spilled in the window.
Daniel collapsed like he’d been shot.
That wasn’t the offhand bounce of headlights. It was a spotlight. Like the kind police had mounted on their cars.
No, no, no! Not now. Run, you have to run, if you hurry you can—
He took a deep breath. Exhaled slow. He had to think, not panic. On elbows and knees he army-crawled back from the window. The light wobbled and moved, sweeping like an accusing finger, white and sharp and unforgiving. It vanished from the window, spilled in the glass on either side of the front door. Paused, and then panned back to the window.
It’s a patrol car. Waters probably has them swinging by the house just in case. That’s all it is. If they were really coming for you, it wouldn’t be like this. It would be men with flashlights and guns coming in the front and the back.
It was one thing to think. Another to act on that. But he made himself hold steady, just lie on the ground, the wedding photo in his hand.
Ten heartbeats later, the light shut off. He heard the sound of a car engine revving.
Daniel let himself breathe.
5
Back on the streets, the hard part was walking slow. Running would attract attention, but running was what he desperately wanted to do. Partly for fear the police might return, but the greater portion by far was the certainty of answers.
It took a long, long time to make it back to the car.
The moment he was safe inside, he pulled the laptop from his bag. Waited, fingers tapping, while the thing loaded. When the welcome screen came up, he typed “052303.”
Incorrect Password.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
He stared. Thought. Then he typed “05232003” and pressed enter. The loading screen vanished. There was a rising sound and a string of piano notes from the computer speakers, and the desktop appeared. The wallpaper was a picture of a nun giving him the finger. There were program icons on the left side: Word, Final Draft, Outlook, iTunes, Firefox, Quicken, Steam, Mine Sweeper. The right side had folders: My Documents, Scripts, Photos, My Music, Video.
Daniel stared. Ran his finger along the touchpad like it was a holy artifact. When the mouse responded, he double-clicked Outlook. There was a pause, and then the e-mail program popped open, displaying dozens of folders in one pane, and his inbox—1128 items— in the other. Subject headers ranging from “Notes on Episode 97” to “All Natural Penis Enlargement!!” Names, names, names.
Including Laney’s. He opened one of her messages at random.
From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 10/29/08, 11:18 AM
Subject: Urgent News
Psst—they’re bringing in cupcakes for Kelly’s birthday! The good kind, with the sour cream frosting. Here’s the plan.
You get two, tell them one is for me. Then I’ll get two and say one is for you.
Meet you behind my trailer. I’ll be wearing a gray trench coat. The password is “yum.”
This message will self-destruct in 5, 4, 3 . . .
Daniel read the message again. Then he shut the laptop and threw the car into gear.
5
The girl at the counter took in her port wine stain, popped her gum, and assigned Belinda Nichols a computer.
For days Belinda had been looking for Daniel Hayes, tracking him through the bars he frequented, following friends and acquaintances. So far, nothing. It was time to try a different approach. She walked through the too-bright Internet café, found her system, logged on. Daniel had spent most of his life in front of a computer screen; maybe he still did. She started with Facebook, searched for his name, found his fan page—2,314 fans. The wall had posts from many of them:
Florian Maas Daniel, I know you didn’t do it! 3 hours ago
Brandee Crisp Where are you, Daniel? You can come hide at my house if you want. I’ll help you forget Laney. 8 hours ago
Kelly Hager I’m so, so sorry for your loss. This too shall pass.
Sunday November 8th at 9:08pm
The “In a relationship with” link read Laney Thayer. For kicks, Belinda clicked on the name— 153,289 fans. Funny world. Laney’s wall had posts too:
Keith Henneman Only the good die young. R.I.P., Laney about 2 minutes ago
Steve Medallin U were a ray of light 2 so many people. RIP, baby. Sorry to your husband. about 5 minutes ago
Sara Varys i think it sucks that so many of you joined only cause she died. i’ve been a fan since 6,000. Laney we miss U!
about an hour ago
Bob Egan Such an ugly thing to happen to someone so beautiful. My condolences to your husband and family and friends.
2 hours ago
Kilburn Hall Umm , hello? You all know that her husband killed her, right?
2 hours ago
Friendship requests over computers. Kids texting instead of passing notes. Digital persona that had more vitality, more animus, than the real people. Celebrities famous for being famous celebrities. Homepages for the murdered; fan groups that swelled after a tragedy; condolences from total strangers. All of it virtual, part of a floating domain no one could ever visit. Facebook For The Dead. What a weird thing we’ve made of the world.
Belinda shook her head, went back to Daniel’s page, scrolled quickly. Nothing from him, no posts to fans or police, no status updates saying he was okay. She wasn’t surprised, but it had been worth a try.
Let’s get a little deeper.
She typed in the address for his Internet service provider. When she clicked on the portion that opened webmail access, it presented her with fields asking for e-mail address and password. The e-mail she had. The password . . .
What are passwords? Birthdays. The name of a wife or a pet. Things people never forget.
Hmm. She tried the obvious ones first: CandyGirls. His birthday. His wedding anniversary. On the last, it opened right up. Bennett was right. People really were predictable.
There were more than a thousand messages. Belinda started at the top.
5
He found a hotel off Sixth Avenue, in what used to be called Skid Row, down near the Greyhound station. A nar
row storefront of chipped brick with dead neon declaring it THE AMBASSADOR. Daniel was fairly sure it wasn’t a favorite of the diplomatic corps; the lobby was parquet and piss, the counter was sealed behind an inch of Plexiglas. The clerk looked like she had rollers in her hair, but didn’t. Her eyes were locked on a twelve-inch television.
“I need a room.”
The woman just held up a finger for silence. On the TV screen, a square-jawed man in a doctor’s coat stared into the middle distance as the music swelled.
“Hey.” Daniel rapped on the Plexi. “Aunt Bee.”
She looked over. “Excuse me?”
He pressed a wad of twenties against the glass. “I need a room.” The walls might once have been white, but were now a palimpsest of stains he didn’t care to look closely at. His neighbor had an affinity for game shows and a gargling cough like drowning. A radiator hissing in one corner heated the room to sweltering. Daniel opened the single window, then plugged in the laptop. He entered the password, and once again programs teased their familiarity, folders beckoned with secrets, and a nun flipped him off.
He took a deep breath, put his fingers on the keyboard. Suddenly nervous. There would be so many answers, so many details. The record of his life in minutiae. But it was minutiae that made things real. What if he didn’t like what he found? What if it turned out that he was a violent man, that Laney was frightened of him, that their marriage was a sham, that she was unhappy . . .
Moment of truth, my friend. Time to face the life you built. It’s something most people never have to do. How many, given the chance to be something different, to start fresh and be whatever they wanted, how many would take it? How many marriages survive out of habit, how many lives are lived in quiet desperation?
What if yours was one?
He looked out the window. Purple clouds moved in Mark Rothko gradients. A packed bus rumbled by, not one white face on it. In the distance, police sirens.
On the other hand, that does beat a life of noisy terror.
Daniel smiled and dove in.
5
There was so very much of it. Thousands of e-mails in scores of folders, and a thousand more that hadn’t been sorted. Long threads discussing the best way to handle a casting situation on the show. Short exchanges with people he apparently had known well, planning lunches, drinks, parties. Notes to his agents, the producers, the studio execs, his lawyer. Catch-up rambles with people he hadn’t seen in years. And Laney. So many e-mails with Laney, ranging from . . .
From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 07/23/08, 7:54 PM Subject: Pavilions
Grab toilet paper on your way home?
. . . to . . .
From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:23 AM
Subject: Saturday . . .
Can we please lock the doors and turn off the phone and spend all day under the covers watching Battlestar Galactica?
From: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) To: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:25 AM
Subject: RE: Saturday
Can I pretend I’m in bed with Starbuck? ;)
From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:27 AM
Subject: RE: RE: Saturday
Why not? I’m planning to.
Love letters and bill reminders. Jokes and forwarded baby pictures. Links to articles on politics and bitchy rants about colleagues. He read for hours, his eyes sore and dry, words starting to wobble. It was like trying to navigate a forest by turning a random direction every time he came to a clearing. There was simply too much information, and not enough context.
He moved on to the pictures. There were tons of them, he and Laney on vacation, on the set, in the car, in their house. An early morning shot of him with his hair pulled into a wacky tangle. Laney holding someone’s baby, making the little girl wave at the camera. Shots of dinner parties and Christmas trees and friends. But by and large, the photos were of the two of them, individually or together.
A world of two.
It was surreal. He had the queer sensation of eavesdropping on his own life. And that was before he discovered the videos.
5
INT. DANIEL & LANEY’S KITCHEN—EVENING
A cook’s dream—a six-burner Viking stove, butcher block countertops, a window on the back wall to an avocado tree in a small enclosed yard. Two bottles of wine, one empty, one half, and a couple of glasses.
LANEY THAYER, casual in jeans and a pink tee worn over a black long-sleeve shirt, stands at the counter. Strands of hair slip from her ponytail, and she is caught mid-giggle.
DANIEL (O.S.)
Okay.
Laughter bubbles through his voice, and it sets Laney off again. The video is grainy and wobbly, obviously shot with a simple digital camera.
DANIEL (O.S.) All right. Okay. Okay. So. (collecting himself, then adopting a theatrical voice)
And now, Laney Thayer, star of television’s hit series Candy Girls, performing her rendition of The Peanuts Christmas Movie.
Laney sets down her glass of red, turns to face the camera. Her smile could power a city. It is nothing at all like her signature Candy Girls pout.
She launches into song.
LANEY
Hawrk the herald ang-gels siing
(she stops, changes to a laughing tone.) You know, with their heads thrown back and mouths all wide—
She opens her mouth hugely, uses her hands to mark an imaginary Pac-Man maw.
LANEY (CONT’D)
(singing again)
Glo-ree to, the new bowrn king.
(talking)
Remember? Remember?
Daniel’s answer is a laugh that shakes the camera.
LANEY (CONT’D)
And then they dance.
(she sings the soundtrack)
da-na-na-nanana-na-nah, da-na-na-nah . . . da-na-na-nanana-na-nah, da-dada, dadada . . .
Her dance is silly, a jig of hopping from foot to foot, arms behind her, head thrown back as she sings her own soundtrack.
LANEY (CONT’D)
Bah-dah-dah-dah! Doink-iddie doink-iddie, doink-iddie, Bah-dah-dah-dah! Doink-iddie doink-iddie—
Her voice dissolves into champagne bubble laughter. She poses for a moment, then sweeps out a deep, showman’s bow.
LANEY (CONT’D)
Yup. That’s it. That’s how they do it.
The video goes wonky, twisting sideways, then upside down. There is a clear flash of her shoulder, then a blur of hardwood floor, then something fuzzy and dark, perhaps a sweater.
The cameraman appears to be neglecting his duties in order to cop a hug.
DANIEL (O.S.)
(a melting tone)
You. Ahh, you.
(a beat)
You are one foxy chick.
Laney giggles again, and then the video freezes.
5
Daniel’s mouth stretched in a smile wide enough to hurt, but his body was tense and rigid. He felt like a man gut-shot in the middle of a joke. That was all? How could that be all? He stabbed the button to play it again.
Their kitchen sprang to life, not the morbid drunkard’s cave he’d seen, but the heart of a warm home. Red wine glowed. Laney, his Laney, laughed and sang and danced for him. Her ponytail bobbed from side to side, her feet tapped out that goofy Riverdance, her hips swayed lithe and graceful. A silly, private moment, not the kind of thing epic love poems were written about. But the kind of thing they should be written about. Not love as stormy skies and sweeping passion, gathered armies and pounding seas. Real love. Love that had to pick up the dry cleaning, and worked too late, and could swim in a moment’s laughter. Love that could fit into a life.
He set it on loop.
Again and again and again she danced for him. Joyful and unself-conscious and free. Daniel didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the slick trickle of a t
ear paving a route down his cheek. He didn’t stop himself. Just sat and watched her dance and bawled like a child.
Oh baby, my baby, where did you go? How could you leave me alone here?
He paused the video to check the date stamp. It had been recorded on October 18th. Laney had been murdered on November 3rd.
Just two weeks separated the woman dancing in fluffy socks from the broken body spinning in cold ocean currents.
Nausea twisted his guts like a handful of rope. He staggered to his feet, stumbled to the bathroom, collapsed in front of the toilet, barely making it before everything exploded out, sick and hot. His fingers clutched the dirty porcelain. Shoulders shaking with fever. The pain tore through him like lightning, flashes that left him blind and weak.
It was all gone. The life he had led. The thousand intimacies they’d shared. The victories and struggles and banal moments. Cooking dinner or watching television or sitting with his feet in her lap, it was gone forever.
Nothing was supposed to be this bad.
No wonder. No wonder I got in my car and took off. The only amazing thing is that I made it all the way there.
And all he had to look forward to was remembering it all again. Like a slow drip of acid, each memory would leave a wound. Each would be a reminder of what would never be again.
Daniel huddled on the cracked floor of the flophouse bathroom and wept.
He couldn’t say how long he lay there. But eventually, he forced himself to his feet. Flushed the toilet, then spun the cold water tap all the way and jammed his head beneath it, ribbons of icy water splitting his hair, rivulets pouring down his neck, into his ears. The cold was shocking after the dozy heat of the room. The sink’s porcelain was a network of hairline cracks intricate as a spider’s web. There were no towels, and he took off his shirt, used it to dry himself.
Before, he had wondered if it was possible, all the things that they had said about him. His temper and the money issues and the rumors of an affair and the unbearable possibility that he had had something to do with her death.
No matter what else he might learn, he would never again doubt that they had loved each other, that he would have done anything for her. That he would have torn the whirling world to shreds before he laid an angry hand on her.