The Man From Taured: A thrilling suspense novel by the new master of horror (World's Scariest Legends Book 3)

by Jeremy Bates

  I contemplated video calling Bless, but she would more than likely insist again that I show her Okubo’s apartment, and a closetful of women’s clothes would be hard to explain. Instead I sent her a quick message, thanking her for the money and promising to get in touch soon.

  I was about to close the page but hesitated, nagged by a feeling there was someone else I should get in touch with…

  ∆∆∆

  The possibility of contacting Miley “Smiley” Laffont—the possibility she might be alive in this world—sent such a shockwave through me so inclusive that for a moment I couldn’t move or think.

  Nevertheless, my reasoning was simple and valid:

  If my father could be alive in this dimension, then so could Smiley.

  I typed “Miley Laffont + Andorra” into Facebook’s search bar and pressed Enter.

  When I received no matches, it struck me that Smiley could be, and likely was, married. I dropped her surname and performed a second search.

  No luck.

  With my initial burst of hope fading quickly, I performed a final, broad search for the name “Miley Laffont” with no additional keywords.

  I began scrolling through the results one by one.

  I knew it was her without delay. She had the same blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes and namesake smile that I remembered so well—yet she was different too. There was a maturity to her features, a hardness forged by the natural process of battling life and growing old.

  But it was definitely my Smiley, of this I was certain.

  I sent her a message:

  Hello Smiley,

  I deleted the salutation, unsure whether she still went by the playful sobriquet, and started over:

  Hello ma chérie,

  Although this is a new Facebook account I am contacting you from, it is the same old me. Your profile says you are in Paris now? How exciting! In any event, I wanted to let you know of my new account in the event we could catch up. I’d love to hear how you are doing. Time passes too quickly.

  Warmest regards,

  Gaston

  I read over the message several times before sending it. I didn’t know whether the me in this reality already knew Smiley was in Paris or not, but I could not help that detail. If she replied, and questioned my memory, I would simply plead ignorance. What mattered was getting in touch.

  I stood, feeling sharply buzzed, as though I had just drained a tot of good whisky.

  Smiley was alive and well!

  With a silly grin on my face, I capered across the room to the refrigerator. I withdrew the bottle of blanc de blancs from the previous night and poured myself a glass. Back at the computer I played some music on YouTube, sipped the bubbly, and refreshed Facebook constantly in the hope of receiving a reply from Smiley.

  It wasn’t until some fifteen minutes later, while I was singing along to A-ha’s “Take On Me” and reading the penumbra of theory on brane cosmology, when a notification alerted me that I had received a new message.

  I clicked it.

  Gaston! I am so surprised to hear from you! Are you around right now? Can you talk?

  I drained the little champagne left in my glass, turned off the music, and commenced a video call.

  Smiley’s face filled my screen, her brow drawn in concentration. I suspected she couldn’t see me as I could her.

  “Miley?” I said. “Can you hear me?”

  Her eyes flashed to the camera, though there was no sign of recognition in them. “Gaston? I can hear you, but I can’t see you.”

  For a moment I was lost in the green-blue depths of her eyes. I had seen them in my dreams for the last twenty years. They had always both warmed me with remembrance and chilled me with loss. Now seeing them for real was overwhelming.

  “Gaston?”

  “Yes, I am here. I can see you—”

  “Oh! There you are!” Her brilliant smile lit up her face—then faltered. “Gaston, your eye!”

  “Ah,” I said, my hand automatically going to the still-tender bruise. “I am fine. Do not worry.”

  “It looks like it hurts.”

  “I am fine. You look wonderful.”

  Her smile returned. “So do you. Well, aside from the black eye.”

  We both laughed.

  “Mon Dieu, Gaston,” she said. “It is so nice to see you. This is so random! When was the last time we talked?”

  “I cannot remember for sure,” I said. “It must be…” I trailed off, hoping she’d finish.

  “Ten years? It must be ten. At least.” She shook her head. “Whatever happened with us?”

  “Ten years…” I repeated, making sense of this. “That was about the time I moved to Manila…”

  “I know. You were so excited. Everything must be going well there?”

  “We should have stayed in touch.”

  “Yes, we should have. But marriage, a daughter…” She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “You can’t stay young forever, unfortunately.”

  Marriage. I smiled, though no phonier smile had ever graced my lips. “You kept your maiden name?”

  “No, but I took it back after the divorce. Oh—you wouldn’t know, would you? My husband and I agreed to a divorce last year.” She shrugged again. “People change, I guess.”

  “I am sorry,” I said, doing my best to keep the smile from turning genuine.

  Smiley was not only alive, but she was single!

  “You are in Paris?” I said.

  “My husband was from here. We moved four years ago. Esmée, my daughter, was born a year after that. I’d like to move back to Andorra, but joint custody…it makes for a logistical problem.”

  “Your daughter is three?” I asked.

  “Yes, three. Where is she? Let me introduce you.” Smiley looked away from the camera and called her daughter’s name. “She’s downstairs. I’m not sure if she heard me. What about you, Gaston? Are you married?”

  “I—no, I am not,” I replied, stymied by which reality to reference.

  “I should have expected as much. You were always such a ladies’ man! You could never stay with just one woman.”

  “Hardly!” I countered. “I dated Cecile all throughout university.”

  Smiley frowned. “Cecile? Who’s Cecile? And if you dated her all throughout university, you kept her well-hidden!”

  “I guess I did,” I agreed in order not to tangle up realities. “In fact, we were somewhat on-and-off.”

  “That sounds more like the Gaston I knew!” She smiled wistfully. “Hey, do you remember the bet we made when we were younger? We said if we were both single when we were forty, we would marry each other.”

  “Yes, I do remember that! Forty seemed so far away then.”

  “I know! And now I’m forty-two…”

  “Going on forty-three.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I am too.”

  “Two years overdue…”

  “Move to the Philippines,” I said lightly. “We can get married there and buy a little house on a beach.”

  “A beach on an island?”

  “At the end of a private road. No neighbors or noise.”

  “Just the beach and the ocean. That sounds lovely, Gaston.”

  “But you would have to learn to drive a scooter.”

  “Would I?”

  “Everybody on tropical islands drives scooters.”

  “I don’t know,” she said, biting her lip. “Those roads are so twisty-turny, aren’t they? I think I’d be too afraid… Oh, look who’s here!” Smiley left the camera’s field of view, returning a moment later holding a little girl with bouncy gold curls and a smile to rival her mother’s. “This is my precious Esmée!”

  “Hello, Esmée!” I said, waving. “You are adorable!”

  “Say hello, ma puce. This is my old friend, Gaston Green.”

  “I like green,” Esmée said, hooking the corner of her mouth with a finger. “My teddy bear is green.”

  “Where is Mr. Teddy fro
m?” Smiley asked her daughter.

  “The Lost Forest,” the girl said. “Everything is green there.”

  “Sounds like a magical place,” I said.

  “Are you coming to visit us?” she asked me.

  “Visit?” I said, caught off guard. “I would like to, but I am a very far way away right now.”

  “He’s in Manila, mon ange. That’s on the other side of the world.”

  I saw no point in correcting her that I was in Japan.

  “You can take an airplane here, can’t you?” Esmée said. “You can be our friend and I can show you the Lost Forest and you can make my mommy happy again.”

  “Ma puce!” Smiley said. Appearing flustered, she added, “What have I told you about keeping our private talks private?”

  “I’m hungry, Mommy.”

  “I know, it’s breakfast time, isn’t it?” To me Smiley said, “And so the day begins… What time is it there now?”

  “Afternoon,” I said. “I should start thinking about supper myself.”

  “It’s been good talking to you, Gaston. Thank you for getting in touch.”

  “It has been good talking to you…Smiley. Can I still call you that?”

  “Of course you can!” She laughed. “I haven’t heard it in years. But I like it. I miss it.”

  “Mommy…”

  “Yes, I know. Can you say goodbye to Gaston?”

  “Goodbye, Gaston,” she said shyly.

  “Goodbye, Esmée.”

  “Bye, Gaston, take care.”

  I raised a hand in farewell. Smiley clicked off, and the video window closed.

  I sagged back in my chair, unsure if I wanted to laugh or cry.

  Chapter 40

  I remained sitting in that chair for a very long time. I thought of Smiley and the night she died on the mountain. I thought of the woman she was now, middle-aged, with a young daughter. I thought of the paradox that she could be both dead and alive at the same time, and what this meant about mortality, and life in general…and then when I felt my head begin to ache from sparring with the impossible, or what I’d always believed to be the impossible, I went to the fridge and poured myself the last of the blanc de blancs.

  Goblet in hand, I ventured onto the small balcony. It was late afternoon, the city air warm and humid, the red sun swelling. A hornet half the size of my thumb lit on the armrest of one of the chairs before I swatted it away. I did not want to add anaphylactic shock to my list of grievances.

  Elbows resting on the top of the concrete parapet, I noticed a man in a tight white suit on the sidewalk across from Okubo’s building.

  He seemed to be looking directly at me.

  Sticking a cell phone to his ear, he began walking leisurely down the street.

  I watched him until he reached the corner, where he turned around and wandered back the way he’d come, toward his original spot, still talking.

  Deriding myself for being paranoid, I went back inside.

  ∆∆∆

  Okubo returned from the gym thirty minutes later. By the time she had showered and changed back into her muumuu and slippers, it was a little past five p.m.

  “I must confess I finished all the champagne,” I said guiltily.

  “Good thing I keep a secret stash then,” she said, squatting before a cupboard beneath the counter. She transferred a bucket filled with cleaning supplies to the floor, along with another bucket overflowing with scrunched-up plastic bags, before saying “Ah-ha!” and fishing out two bottles of red wine. She set them on the counter and put away the buckets.

  I studied the labels. An Australian shiraz and a French merlot.

  “Preference?” I asked.

  “None,” she said.

  I opened the shiraz and filled two glasses.

  “Kampai,” she said, holding hers high. “To movie night!”

  I clinked. “Kampai. Did you think of a movie to watch?”

  “No, you were supposed to do that.”

  “Roxanne?” I offered.

  “Isn’t that really old?”

  “It is a classic.”

  “Is it on Netflix?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It has to be on Netflix.”

  “Maybe we should browse Netflix then?”

  “You’re a genius. But I want a cigarette first.”

  We went out to the balcony. I glanced over the parapet to the street—and was stunned to see the same man in the tight white suit down there.

  “Merde!” I said. “Do you recognize that man?”

  Okubo came next to me. “No,” she said. “Is he looking at us?”

  “He was down there earlier,” I told her, “doing the exact same thing.”

  “Chotto!” she called loudly, getting his attention. “Sokono kimi nani shiteruno?” she added, asking him what he was doing.

  The man continued to stare up at us.

  “What a weirdo...” she mumbled.

  I agreed with this sentiment, only I didn’t think he was merely an innocuous weirdo; in fact, I was thinking uneasily about the characters Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones played in Men in Black.

  “You sure you do not know him?” I asked.

  “One hundred percent never met him,” she replied, lighting her cigarette.

  Finally the man looked away from us and began using his phone once again.

  “I do not like this,” I said. “It is too coincidental.”

  “You think he’s here for you? He doesn’t look like a police officer.”

  “Have you seen Men in Black?”

  Okubo laughed, although it was tentative rather than carefree. “You think he’s a secret government agent? What’s his mission? To round up intergalactic travelers who come to Japan illegally?”

  The idea sounded absurd when spoken out loud, but it was nevertheless exactly what I was contemplating.

  “I am going to go talk to him,” I stated.

  “What?” Okubo stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray. “No way! What if he attacks you or something?”

  “What if he knows something about why I am here?” I took a heavy breath. “I know that sounds crazy. But what else is he doing staring up at me?”

  We both glanced over the parapet at the man again.

  His back was to us now, his phone still pressed to his ear.

  “Fine,” Okubo relented. “Go down. But I’m coming too.”

  Chapter 41

  The man in the tight white suit was right where he’d been, on the far sidewalk, on his phone.

  I marched over to him. “Hey?” I said, not bothering with Japanese. “Hey?”

  He swiveled on his heels to face me. Beneath a stylish shag dyed orange-blonde was an angled face defined by a svelte nose and prominent cheekbones. A comma-shaped scar to the left of his chin marred an otherwise smooth complexion. I could read nothing in his dark eyes.

  “Do you know me?” I demanded.

  The man said something quietly into his phone, then tucked it away in his inside blazer pocket. He looked me up and down with panache but didn’t say anything.

  Okubo repeated my question in Japanese.

  The man remained mute.

  I stepped up to him, my hands balling into fists at my sides. Although he appeared agile and fit, I was half a head taller and maybe twenty kilograms heavier. He lifted his chin, clearly posturing.

  Okubo asked him why he wouldn’t speak.

  Ignoring her, he said to me, “What is your name?”

  I blinked in surprise, partly because he had spoken, partly because the question was in English, but mostly because he didn’t appear to know who I was after all.

  “My name is Gaston Green,” I told him. “What is your name?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “Why are you watching me?”

  “That doesn’t concern you.”

  “I think it does concern me.”

  The man tugged back the left sleeve of his blazer to read the time on a sil
ver Bulgari.

  “Some place to be?” I asked, annoyed at his nonchalance.

  He looked down the street to the right of us. As if on cue, a blacked-out Toyota van rounded the corner and cruised toward us.

  Okubo took my hand in hers. “Gaston,” she said stiffly, “we need to go.”

  “You go!” I told her, tugging my hand free. “Get inside! Now!”

  “Come with me! You don’t know who these people are!”

  “I need to find out!”

  “Gaston!”

  I brushed past the man in the tight white suit and marched in the direction of the approaching van. Okubo shouted after me. I ignored her. The vehicle lurched to a stop. The side door slid open and two men in gray suits jumped out.

  Before I knew what was happening, they had me by the arms and were shoving me into the backseat of the van. They piled in after me and slammed the door shut.

  Tighty-Whitey hopped in shotgun, and as the van squealed away from the curb, I glimpsed Okubo out the back window, waving her arms and running after us in vain.

  Part IV

  Yamanashi Prefecture

  Chapter 42

  We pulled onto an expressway and sped west along overpasses and through tunnels. The driver recklessly took the many sharp curves and multi-lane merges while aggressively weaving in and out of the traffic. All I could see of him was the back of his shaved head and a ruby earring. The two men in the middle row of seats appeared to be twins, both sporting goatees and long black hair tied into loose man-buns.

  Eventually I broke the silence and said, “Where are you taking me?”

  I didn’t expect an answer and was surprised when Tighty-Whitey called back: “To see someone.”

  “Who?” I demanded.

  “You will find out.”

  “Why not tell me?”

  He didn’t answer, and I was too unnerved to press him.

  Gradually the large gray office buildings adorned with illuminated advertising boards dwindled and were replaced by low-rise apartment blocks and houses. As the sun dipped to the horizon, twilight crept out of hiding, spreading a darkness over the semi-rural landscape. The thought crossed my mind that I was being taken to a remote spot in the woods where I’d be forced to dig my own grave before being shot in the back of the head and buried. Yet I didn’t really believe it, for I knew no reason why these men would want me dead…and even if they did, there were many less time-consuming and labor-intensive ways to kill someone.