by Erik Carter
And he longed for the past. He ached for his wife. But more so, he yearned for his two long-lost children—because, unlike Mary, they were still among the living.
Behind him, he heard the doors of his study swing open. Someone rushed into the room. He didn’t turn to look.
“Pop! We got trouble.” It was his son, Danny. The footsteps drew nearer. “Pop…?”
Paulie held up a finger. “Do you miss the twins, Danny?”
It took a moment for Danny to process the sudden question before he answered. “I do.”
It was a token response.
Paulie knew that Danny didn’t miss his brother and sister. Danny was lacking something, deep inside. It wasn’t as though he was completely devoid of a soul—there was certainly a zest for life in him—but he was without any compassion. And while Paulie loved him immensely, there was something about Danny that frightened him too. A tinge of sinisterness.
Paulie heard Danny grab the rolling chair—from behind the desk on the other side of the room—and wheel it to the fireside next to him. He sat down. Paulie finally looked over at him.
Even through a father’s eyes, Danny was a rough looking man. He had a lean frame and awkward proportions. His neck craned forward, and his back was slightly hunched, making him look rather like a vulture stuffed into a business suit. His skin was craggy, oily, and he had a shock of coarse, carrot-red hair, receded and with an alarming amount of premature gray. He had a sunken face, ears that were a couple sizes too big, and a few stray hairs where his eyebrows had all but disappeared. His lips were chapped, and he was always licking them, chewing them.
Paulie took a sip of his whiskey and felt the warmth travel to his gut. “It was my fault they left, you know. I’m the reason Jane took your brother, changed their names. They never even claimed their nicknames. Me and your mother—God rest her soul—we thought they could be ‘Johnny and Janey.’ As soon as they were old enough to understand what this family is about, they didn’t want anything to do with us. Or me. They’re just not criminals.”
“They’re nutcases.”
Paulie turned on Danny, gave him a dark glare. “Don’t you dare talk about your brother and sister that way.”
“Oh, come off it, Pop. You know it as well as anyone. You hid them away as long as you could.”
Paulie couldn’t deny what Danny had said. He took another sip of whiskey. “I’d like to say that I did that for their own good, but the truth is I was embarrassed.”
“I don’t blame you with one of them hearing voices and the other a panicky mess with sleep problems.”
Danny had been almost smiling as he described his siblings’ issues. Like he was enjoying it.
Paulie looked away from him, back to the fire. “I should never have sent you—of all people—to bring them back. All those years ago. But Janey despised me. She never would have listened had I tried myself. I thought that sending their brother might convince them. A family connection.”
“I tried, Pop.”
“I know you did, Danny. But it scared them off, and they disappeared for seven years. Now one of them has lost his mind. And he’s out there, and the whole damn world is chasing him. My boy...”
“Pop, listen. Jonathan—”
“Hit an Alfonsi bank? Yes, I already heard.”
Danny didn’t immediately reply. The embers in the fire popped.
“They’re going to strike,” Danny said finally. “And soon. The Italians aren’t going to buy that Jonathan did this accidentally due to a mental condition.”
“I imagine you’re right.”
Another pause from Danny. Then he said, “So what are we going to do?”
“We can either wait for them to strike,” Paulie said and drained the rest of the whiskey. “Or we strike first.”
Chapter Ten
It was nighttime, and the California air felt just as good as it had during the day. Comfortable. And clean, even in the middle of a big city
A couple blocks ahead of Dale and Yorke was the bank. There were four squad cars outside, lights on. The street in front was blocked off, and police tape surrounded the entrance. Outside the tape was a mob of media, and they’d spotted Dale and Yorke, some already making their way toward them.
Dale strode briskly, but he was still having to book it to keep up with Yorke. Her feet pounded the pavement, seemingly as much from frustration as their hurried pace.
“Shit,” Yorke said. “lt’s an Alfonsi bank. Just like the first one eight months ago. Beau Lawton is going to flip his lid. I know how the guy thinks.”
“You work with him a lot?”
“First time. But remember me telling you I dated someone for six years?” She started her next sentence, hesitated, then continued. “It was Beau.”
Dale looked at her. She didn’t look back.
The reporters were upon them. Cameras. Lights. Arms and shoulders and grabby hands jockeying for position.
Deputy Marshal Yorke, what can you tell us about tonight’s events? Is this a sign of strife between the two families?
Is there a pattern to Jonathan Fair’s crimes?
Tim Melbourne, a statement?
Yorke turned on Dale upon hearing the “Tim Melbourne” name. “Don’t you dare say anything, smartass.”
They continued past the media and ducked under the crime tape then pushed through the cops to the steps by the front door. Two plainclothes detectives were talking to a security guard—a black guy with a thick beard wearing a navy blue uniform.
One of the detectives recognized Dale’s partner. “Yorke.”
She nodded. “Can we get a few minutes, fellas?”
As the detectives left, the guard ran a hand over his beard and pointed at Dale, a respectful and impressed look in his eyes.
“Nice beard, man,” he said.
Dale and Yorke were in the empty, echoey lobby of the bank. Green marble everywhere. They stood at the security desk, behind which the guard was seated. He faced a bank of small video monitors.
On one of the monitors, they watched as Jonathan Fair ran away from the bank’s vault and scurried for cover. The vault’s door exploded, and a moment later Fair returned and slipped through the cloud of dust and into the vault.
“That’s enough,” Dale said.
The guard stopped the tape.
Dale took a few steps back and looked at the desk. Yorke joined him. Across the front of the desk was a message, crudely painted in broad strokes.
“478…” Dale said.
Yorke crossed her arms. “That’s the number of—”
“The number of dead in the 1906 earthquake,” Dale said. In his research the last couple days, he’d seen that number so often that it was now seared into his memory. “But why would Felix think it’s a lie?”
Dale’s thought over his own question for a moment. Then he turned to the guard.
“And he wrote the message just before he left?”
“That’s right,” the guard said and fast-forwarded the tape.
Dale watched as Fair exited the vault, walked over to the desk, unhooked a quart of paint from his belt, and took a brush from his pocket. He quickly opened the paint can and slapped out the message before turning toward the front door. His figure exited the side of the video image.
Dale and Yorke moved their attention to a different monitor where the entrance of the bank could be seen. Fair appeared from the right side of the screen. He hurried to the front door then stepped outside, got into a car, and left.
“Wait. Back up,” Dale said.
The guard rewinded the tape.
“What is it?” Yorke said.
Dale pointed. “Look. The car was waiting for him.”
Yorke shrugged. “So what? A taxi. He was in no rush. He overpowered the guard before he could pull the alarm.”
The guard looked away, embarrassed.
“No,” Dale said, shaking his head. “It looks like he got in the passenger side. Why wouldn’t he get in the bac
k of a taxi?” He turned to the guard again. “Let’s see how he got into the bank.”
The guard pushed the button, and the images on the screens zipped backward in time—Fair erasing the message; the vault un-exploding; Fair walking backwards to the entrance; the collapsed form of the guard reanimating and standing up; and finally a conversation at the door between the guard and Fair before before both of them exited in opposite directions.
The guard stopped the video. Then he started it again, playing forward now. In the darkness, through the glass, was visible the form of a car stopping outside the bank. A figure stepped out of the passenger side of the car and approached the door. As the figure drew closer, it was clear that it was Jonathan Fair. He pulled back a fist, as though he was going to punch through the glass.
But then he stopped abruptly.
Another figure exited the car from the driver side and approached Fair, excitedly waving his hands in a STOP motion. The angle was awkward, and the image was grainy, making the man’s face unclear and ambiguous. There was an animated, urgent discussion between the two men, and then the driver returned to the car. Fair faced the door again, and instead of punching through the glass, he tapped on it.
“Oh my god...” Dale said.
He looked at Yorke. Her mouth was open a bit, eyes wide.
“Stop,” Dale said to the guard, who paused the tape.
Dale was floored.
All this time he—and Yorke and everyone else on the task force and everyone else watching the events around the world—had assumed that Jonathan Fair was working alone, continuing where he left off with the first robbery that led to his arrest, a crime that had been conclusively proven to be the work of Fair alone.
But the man who got out of the car and had the animated discussion with Fair was clearly a part of the robbery. Not only was he driving the car, but by the heated nature of their exchange and Fair’s sudden change of plans—having almost punched through the glass before simply knocking on it—there was no doubt in Dale’s mind that the unknown man was involved in the planning process.
Jonathan Fair had a partner.
Dale thought of the images on the cork board back at the Hall—the other five men who had escaped the mental hospital. Beau Lawton had marveled at how they were all intelligent, professional...
“Jonathan Fair isn’t alone,” Dale said to Yorke. “And I’m guessing his friend is one of the other escapees.”
Chapter Eleven
The man hovered over her, and Jane Logan tried to scream.
But no sound escaped her lips.
She was lying in bed, wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. The sheet hardly covered her. She felt exposed with the tall man standing directly over her, a pure-black figure in the darkness of her room.
But she couldn’t move. Not one muscle. Not her lips, not her arms or hands … only her eyes. All she could do was watch as the figure drew closer and closer.
This isn’t real, she told herself. This isn’t real.
She could tell herself that all she wanted, but it was as real as it needed to be in that moment. Right then, it was very much her reality.
She tried to move a finger. If she could move something, anything, it would be over. She could break it.
She focused on her left thumb.
Move. Move.
The man put one knee on the bed then pulled his form over her, straddling her. She felt herself sink down as his weight compressed the mattress.
This isn’t real.
The figure was pure black. A living shadow. The hands came down upon her chest, at the top of her breasts.
And pushed.
Hard.
Jane felt the air being squeezed out of her chest. She tried to breathe. Tried to move. Nothing was happening. She couldn’t take in enough air. Her heart fluttered. Panic set in. Sweat broke out across her forehead.
The figure pushed harder. Her chest caved. Gurgling noises came from her throat. Her vision blurred, whitened. She looked into the man’s face. Blank. A dark orb. A presence.
She felt a tear slide down her cheek.
This isn’t real…
Another shove from the man, and she started to gag. Black spots. Ringing in her ears. And then…
She bolted up in bed.
And screamed.
The sound echoed throughout her small, studio apartment.
She sat like this, hands on the mattress, chest heaving, eyes wet, panting. For just a moment. Then the phone rang.
She took a deep breath and answered. “Yes?”
“You scream again, Miss Logan. Wake me up.”
It was Mrs. Wang, owner of the house. Jane’s apartment was half of the building’s second floor.
“I know, Mrs. Wang. I’m very sorry.”
“You wake my cat too. She not happy.”
“Tell Petunia I’m sorry also. Sleep paralysis again.”
“That’s three times this week. Get better sleep. Try valerian root.”
“I’ll do that, Mrs. Wang.”
She hung up.
A couple more slow, deep breaths then she walked to the sink at the back of the apartment. It was a tiny place, and the sink served both the bathroom and the kitchen. She ran some water in a glass, took a few gulps, and looked at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t help but imagine the man returning, stepping up behind her reflection, and it sent a shiver over her flesh.
None of it had been real. She had to keep reminding herself.
Sleep paralysis. It had tormented her since she was a child, a condition in which the sufferer found him- or herself awake yet completely unable to move or speak. Paralyzed. It occurred during the surreal transition between consciousness and sleep, when the lines of reality were blurred. The sufferer frequently saw terrifying hallucinations, to which they could not react. They could only watch. Intense emotions such as fear and panic accompanied the hallucinations, which could present themselves in often macabre forms such as shadow figures and demons. Feelings of suffocation were common, and because the sufferer was stuck in a state between sleep and wakefulness, aspects of REM breathing heightened the sensation of suffocation. Though sleep paralysis was a mysterious condition, known triggers included abnormal sleep cycles, sleep deprivation, and stress.
The latter of which Jane had in spades.
She wet a wash cloth and wiped her face, assessed her reflection. She looked like crap. Tired, bloodshot eyes. It had been the better part of a year that she’d been back in San Francisco, back in California, following Jonathan Fair, as it seemed the entire city was now doing. But while everyone else had been following Jonathan during the frenzy of the last couple days, Jane had been focused on him for months. That’s why her skin was so pale. That’s why the bags under her eyes were so dark.
Some hair was stuck to her forehead, wet from the washcloth. She brushed it aside. It was wavy and dark, almost black. Not her natural color, which was reddish-brown. She’d had to slip into anonymity upon her return to California. Though she preferred her natural color, the dark hair served its purpose because it was a drastic change, and with it she could pass as either Hispanic or Italian. She had one of those faces.
She finished the glass of water then walked to her desk, which was squeezed between the front wall and the foot of her bed. Scattered over the desk’s surface and taped to the walls were all manner of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, pictures, and notes about the Jonathan Fair case. The wealth of information she’d gathered was staggering. And it all seemed to be leading her nowhere.
As she continued to search for her brother. Her twin.
She pulled out the chair and sat down. Her eyes traced over the materials to the two framed pictures she kept at the corner of the desk. The smaller one was a black-and-white photo of her and John as children, about ten years old, surrounded by massive tree trunks. The redwoods. John had a stick hoisted over his head. A pair of large hands rested on the children—one hand on John’s shoulder and another on Jane’s�
��from a figure who stood behind them. The rest of the person was cropped out of the photo. Her father. She hated having even the smallest bit of him visible, even just his hands. But it was the only picture she had of her and her brother at the family’s cabin. And those were some of the only sweet memories from her childhood.
She picked up the other frame. Her and John, in adulthood now, albeit young adulthood. Better days, before things got so crazy. Back when they were first on their own, when the danger hadn’t seemed quite so imminent. Back before his condition got worse. The picture had been taken during college. John with his shaggy hair and square glasses. Her with her arms wrapped around him. Both smiling.
It wasn’t long after this picture was taken that Jane had legally changed their identities, and when she’d done so, she’d had zero hesitation in choosing their new last name, Logan.
There had been no other name she even considered.
Years earlier. A sunny California day.
A twenty-two-year old Jane walked from the parking lot to her apartment building. It was three stories with a keypad-secured front entrance. She’d been harassed by her father’s goons during her first and second years of college, when she’d lived in the dorms and an apartment with an isolated, alley-facing entrance. She needed more safety, which was why she’d chosen this more secure building during her third and fourth years. After all, she wasn’t just protecting herself. She was also protecting John.
As it turned out, there hadn’t been any more incidents with Big Paul’s thugs since she moved into the new building. A two-year reprieve. A chance to breathe. It seemed that her father had lost interest in her and John, which was perfectly fine by Jane. He had already cut off funding after her freshman year when she’d used the platform of 1960s San Francisco activism to publicly speak out against her criminal family. Since then she’d worked her ass off to pay for the rest of her schooling and to provide for her twin brother.