by Sean Platt
“Not exactly an expert,” I say.
“Me either, just in the broadest sense. But the theory is that every particle has an opposite or connected particle. Like mirror images. If you separate them, they’ll still act as if they’re together. There are scientific experiments that more or less prove the theory, two particles responding to light, even though only one is exposed. Maybe you’re somehow connected to Allie, and sensing what’s happening to her?”
His theory might be off target, but I wonder if it explains my circumstances in some way. It could account for some things, though it falls apart once you consider how many people I’m connected to.
“You think maybe Madam Monique saw these connections?”
Danny nods.
“Here’s the question,” I say, grateful for an opportunity to discuss this without revealing the truth, “do you think she saw something that already happened, is happening now or is going to happen?”
Danny looks like he needs a joint to break this idea down and explore it from every possible angle.
I press on. “Has she told you about things in your past, present, or future?”
“A bit of all.”
“And was she accurate about any of it?”
“All of it.”
I stare. It isn’t the answer I want to hear.
“I need to talk to her again.”
“I’ll call her later,” Danny says. “Maybe we can schedule something for tomorrow.”
“No, I need to talk to her tonight.”
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. She seemed pretty shook up.”
“Can you call? Just see.”
Danny says okay then makes the call.
I wait, patiently.
Nobody answers.
Danny leaves a message, asking Staci to please call us back.
He hangs up.
I want to ask him to drive back there, now, but I know he’ll argue. I can’t go back in the apartment and do nothing. Maybe going out to dinner will give us an excuse to drive back by Madam Monique’s. I try and remember the name of the steak house I saw in the town center.
“Hey, what was that steak house we drove by near Madam’s?”
“Juno’s?”
“Yeah,” I say, “want to go there for dinner?”
He looks at me suspiciously. “You’re not going to ask me to drive back to Madam’s, are you?”
“Only if they don’t call us back.”
“You’re really worked up about this, aren’t you?”
I’m not sure if he’s about to tease me and the fact that I’m now a believer, or if he’s concerned. Maybe both.
“I’ll admit that she scared me.”
Danny hugs me. “It’ll be okay.”
I hug him back, wishing I could tell him more, but knowing I can’t.
Dinner is good, even though I’m anxiously awaiting Staci’s call. When we don’t hear back, I convince Danny to swing by Madam Monique’s.
Her lights are off.
I get out of the car and knock on the door anyway.
No response.
This will have to wait until tomorrow. But will I be here?
At bedtime, Danny is in the mood.
Fortunately, I’m able to convince him that I have a headache, and suggest we smoke a few bowls instead.
We discuss his theories in bed, but nothing seems to approach the possible truth in his original ideas.
As I feel sleep coming, I hope to stay in Charles for at least one more day. Just long enough to talk to Madam Monique again.
Chapter Six
Thursday
I wake up. I am no longer Charles, though due to a splitting headache and foggy thoughts, I don’t yet know whose body I’m in.
I’m not sure why, but it seems like I tend to wake too often in people who spent the night partying like there was no tomorrow. It amazes me how careless people can be with their bodies, from overeating to drug and alcohol abuse, people take their vessels for granted, as if they don’t need to care for the very thing which should carry them into old age. Most hosts I’ve been inside treat their cars better than their bodies.
I sit up, looking around the apartment.
It’s small and dark. There are beer bottles everywhere.
There’s a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, lying empty on its side.
Did my host take all those last night? Is this a normal routine, or is he trying to kill himself? I feel an overwhelming sense of pain and guilt, even though I have no associated memories to explain the emotions.
I get out of bed, legs shaky, body aching.
The thin sliver of light coming through the windows grates on my frayed nerves. A part of me wants to crawl back into bed, to ride this wretchedness out. But I have a feeling if I do that, my host might not wake back up.
My stomach lurches.
I stumble toward the bathroom, barely make it to the toilet, drop to my knees, then vomit into the porcelain bowl.
I sit there retching for what feels like forever, as if releasing toxins from every pore.
I finally stand.
I don’t know how long ago my host went to sleep or took those pills, but I feel like if I hadn’t come along and woken him, he’d be dead now.
I stand up, flick on the lights, and stare into the bathroom mirror, hoping that will jar some of the host’s memories into my brain. At least give me a name to work with.
But I don’t need memories.
I recognize the host.
His name is Thomas (Tommy) Clarke, one of the two reporters at the Bay Cove Chronicle.
He’s twenty-eight, just under six feet tall, and looks like someone you’d see in a Starbucks dutifully writing in their Moleskine journal. He has thick shoulder-length brown hair, coffee-colored eyes, and a beard that looks somewhere between hipster and lumberjack. He usually wears thick black-framed glasses, though he only needs them to see far. In my prior hosts’ memories, I see him as a hard worker, one of the first to arrive, and last to leave at the office, always offering to help others in the newsroom. A nice, decent guy.
I look in the mirror and ask, “What the hell happened to you?”
His memories are still refusing me, which might be the first time it’s taken so long to download, for lack of a better term, the necessary past from a host.
Did alcohol and drugs stall the machinery?
I head back into Tommy’s bedroom, searching for something that might jar a few memories free. The room is small. He has a trunk where he keeps his clothes; an overflowing bookshelf: lots of sci-fi, books on writing, a few tomes of literary fiction, books by journalists, and a wide array of biographies.
There are also several journals. I’m not sure if they’re novels or diaries. I don’t want to pick any up yet, as I prefer to keep the process of discovering my host pure.
I turn to his desk. He has a small iMac, tons of folders and papers covering his desk, which I think are probably work related. There’s a cork board behind his iMac with a lot of little yellow notes, index cards with contact info, and a single photograph.
I look at the photo.
It’s a picture of him and Lara sitting at a restaurant, cozy in a booth, both of them smiling for the camera, holding up drinks. Were they close friends? Or had they once been more? I remember Yvonne’s comment to Lara, how she could always go out with Tommy if things with Gavin didn’t work out. Maybe there is a history here.
They look so happy in the picture. I get a weird sensation, as if I'm peering into my own past.
My mind flashes, and suddenly I’m in that memory — from both sides. They were at a late night dinner with Yvonne, when she suddenly had to take care of something back at the office, leaving Tommy and Lara alone for a good half hour.
Tension had been building for some time, that thing where you both wonder if maybe there’s something more than friendship bubbling under the surface. They both felt it.
As Lara, I’m laughing, having a good
time, wondering if Tommy likes me in that way. He seems like he does, but has yet to act. I consider making the first move, but I’m coming off a bad relationship and don’t want to lose one of my few friends, let alone ruin our small office dynamic. I like my job, a lot, and don’t need a reason to hate it.
Then I experience the same night through Tommy’s memories.
I’m nervous, and a little mad at Yvonne, who had threatened to do this if I didn’t finally make a move on Lara. She left us alone on purpose, trying to set us up. But I’m getting mixed signals.
I’ve never had a relationship that lasted more than a few weeks. I’m insecure, had a shitty childhood with parents who criticized my every move. I was an only child, and couldn’t help but think they never wanted me to begin with. They wanted an adult, someone they could manage, someone who didn’t demand things like time and attention, neither of which they had much to give. I’ve never felt confident of my place with people, so I bury myself in work. It’s easier this way. I’m good at my job, and know how to do it better than those reporters at the Daily. It’s one of the few things I’m not just confident in, but can be cocky about.
But when it comes to relationships, I turn stupid. I’m insecure and needy, always screwing things up. I don’t mean to, but it’s happened enough times to know it’ll probably happen again.
And Lara is too nice of a girl to do that to.
I love talking to her, and not just about the job and local politics, but about things like books and movies and music. I love listening to her going on and on about art. I could spend days lost in conversation with her. And that says nothing of the days I could spend kissing her, touching her, making love to her. She’s the closest to a perfect match for me I’d ever known, but also a good friend.
And I don’t want to screw that up.
Too scared to make a move, I do nothing.
When Yvonne comes back, she gives me a look as if to ask, “Well, did you do anything?”
I shrug.
She mouths the word, Idiot.
And of course she’s right.
Back to the present.
I stare at the photo on the cork board and feel overwhelmed by the crushing loss. The bitter regret Tommy was trying to drown.
I look around at the beer bottles, the pills. He was trying to kill himself. I’m still missing his memories, but it makes perfect sense.
I go to his computer and turn it on.
The screen asks for a password.
But nothing comes.
Dammit.
I try Lara.
Nothing.
I stop. I’m not sure if he has a script that will lock me out or wipe the data if I keep entering incorrect guesses. I’ll have to wait for him to supply the answer.
I decide to shower.
The water feels good — like it’s washing away some of my excess baggage. Even if it’s not erasing memories from the past few days, it’s at least rinsing some of the anxiety that’s been building inside me.
After I wash up and get dressed, I open the curtains and clean his apartment. The living room and kitchen aren’t in terrible shape. It’s mostly the bedroom, where he spends most of his non-work time, sitting in front of the computer.
His cell phone rings from the bedroom desk.
I pick it up off the charger, see Yvonne’s number, and take the call.
“Hello?” I say, Tommy’s voice a bit raspy.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Uh-oh. She’s pissed.
“Sick,” is all I can say.
“Listen, I know you’re taking this hard, but I need to know if I can count on you.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. “Count on me for what?”
“To finish the Bova Holdings story. You’ve been AWOL since Lara died, and we need this story before the council votes on the land use change next week. If you can’t do it, let me know, and I’ll finish it, but I need your notes, your interviews, everything.”
“When do you need it?”
“Tonight? I know the funeral is tomorrow, and I don’t think any of us will be in shape to do much of anything then. But maybe we can finish it together at the office? Are you up for an all-nighter? Katelynn has already offered to help if needed.”
Hearing about Lara’s funeral makes my stomach feel sicker than it already was. Somehow, I manage to hold down whatever I didn’t puke up earlier.
“Well?” Yvonne asks.
I stare at Tommy’s desk and his locked computer. I have no idea where to start, but can’t say no to Yvonne. This sounds like a huge story, and I can’t let Tommy drop the ball, even if he was ready to check out just hours ago.
“Yeah, just give me some time to clean up.”
“Too late, I’m at your front door.”
Shit!
“Okay,” I say into the phone, then hang up.
I go to the door and open it.
It’s weird seeing a host after I’ve been in it. I feel almost like she should recognize me or something. Hey, you used to be me! But she doesn’t seem to sense anything weird.
“How are you?” She closes the door behind her then comes over to hug me.
“Okay,” I say, struggling to keep my emotions, Tommy’s emotions, in check.
She looks down at the trash bags lined up along the kitchen bar. The bags are white, and she can see the outlines of many beer bottles. I see her looking at them, but she doesn’t say anything.
Instead she says, “So, you want to do this here or back at the office?”
I don’t know how to tell her that I can’t even log into the computer, let alone remember anything about the story. I can’t tell her the truth. Can I? She might have her own missing memories from the day I was in her. Maybe she can be the person I open up to and tell what’s going on.
“Back at the office,” I say, hoping that’ll give Tommy’s brain time to inform me.
I go into my bedroom, look at all the folders, spiral notebooks, and papers littering Tommy’s desk, clueless as to which ones might be relevant to the story. I see a flash drive in the computer. Assuming it has his latest work, I grab it and put it in my shirt pocket. I spot a leather satchel filled with my laptop, notebooks, and papers. I take it.
What about all these other papers?
I find a backpack in the small closet and stuff all the papers on his desk into it.
I head back to the living room with the satchel and the backpack.
Yvonne looks at me funny. “I didn’t know we were going camping.”
I laugh.
We drive to the office in separate cars, which gives Tommy’s brain time to come back online and fill me in on some basics.
He’s working on an investigative piece about how the developer Bova Holdings is seeking a land use change so they can build some high-priced condos on land designated for single family homes and parks. It seems like standard stuff that interests few people outside of local environmentalists. The story gets interesting once you piece together some of Bova’s behind-the-scenes activities, including the fact that the company, or its subsidiaries, have given cushy jobs to friends and family of Councilman Gray, Councilwoman Hollingsworth, and Mayor Samuels. Tommy’s also tracked campaign donations from people associated with Bova Holdings to the same council members.
There are still calls to make, people we need to corroborate what we have from sources we can’t name, and some other miscellaneous work before the story can go to print.
I’m not sure how useful I’ll be, but now that the drugs and alcohol are wearing off, I hope Tommy’s memories will keep helping me piece the story together. Plus, Yvonne has been working with Tommy chasing down a lot of the leads.
I arrive at the office, and Tommy gives me the password I need to access his computer. As I read through his notes and parts of the story he’s written so far, I’m impressed by his skills to track shit down.
As I’m printing stuff for Yvonne and Katelynn to read over, I find a not
e with a name that hits me like a hammer — Pastor James Wilson of the First Baptist Church — the pastor on the flash drive that Vinnie gave to Councilman Gray.
Wilson’s church sits on a piece of land that Bova’s has been trying to buy. The developer, Peter Bova, tried to get the city to declare eminent domain on the property to seize it from the church, but there were too many hoops to jump through, and it could draw too much attention to the project, which Bova is trying to avoid.
This explains why Gray wanted the drive. Leverage against Wilson, to force him to sell and avoid the other course of action.
Pastor Wilson also happens to be one of Tommy’s sources in the allegations against Bova Holdings. Wilson supplied many of the documents that spurred the Chronicle’s investigation into what seemed, on the surface, like ordinary business. And while in Vinnie’s body, I helped screw Wilson by giving that drive to Councilman Gray. This makes me wish I’d watched what was on there, to see exactly what they had on Wilson. Was it a minor indiscretion, like getting a lap dance? Or did they catch him doing something illegal — drugs, prostitutes, or something else that wouldn’t just ruin his standing in the community, but land him in jail?
After a few hours spent digging through public records, I find more connections between Bova Holdings and the three city council members, mostly in the form of past campaign contributions given by shell companies or individuals, so as to avoid the $950 individual and other entity caps. It’s all black and white once the dots are connected, which surprises me. The developer and council members either didn’t think anyone would put two and two together, or didn’t care if they did. Judging from conversations in the newsroom, it seems that the city council, and developers, feel they have carte blanche to do as they please, knowing the Daily won’t take them to task. It seems that the paper is heavily influenced by advertisers loyal to Bova Holdings, and it doesn’t want to rock the boat and capsize their funding.
Mix advertising with editorial, and you defang the power of the press. You get collusion. You have uninformed voters who don’t even realize that their government is ceding to the will of Big Business. I can tell that Tommy gets a great sense of pride in working for a smaller press that can still accomplish good in the community. I wonder which advertisers the Chronicle has to please in order to keep its funding. Is the Chronicle truly fighting the good fight, or is it embroiled in a proxy war between rival business interests?