by Неизвестный
“No reason,” Robichaud said, and he continued giving her a tour of his modest home. Finally, ten minutes later and after much more prying, he made a confession. “Because Elvis is eternal,” he said. “When I was a kid, people were still reporting sightings of him. I love that the public adored him so much, they wished him back into existence again.”
“Like a ghost,” she said.
He shook his head. “You and your ghosts.”
She gave him a serious look. “They're not mine. And you should talk, Mr. Talks to Angels.”
He snapped his fingers. “Music. We need music, and I can show off my new surround sound.”
She yawned and surveyed the large couch that dominated the living room. It was big, black, leather, and L-shaped. And he had not overstated its comfort.
She took a seat, and for the next twenty minutes, she nodded sleepily as Daniel Robichaud demonstrated the surround sound and played his favorite songs. Then she was nodding off, falling asleep with a soft, clean-smelling pillow under her head and a crocheted blanket draped over her body.
* * *
The pretty, dark-haired woman on Daniel Robichaud's sofa slept soundly, barely stirring.
To keep himself from watching her sleep and feeling creepy about it, he left the room. He went outside and pulled some weeds from his tidy rows of carrot tops, raked up some stray leaves, and washed and waxed his truck. He contemplated cleaning the gutters, but decided it would be too noisy. He went back inside, where he read a paperback in the bedroom for all of twenty minutes before his eyelids got droopy.
He went to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, and started watching some TV with headphones on. The flickering light from the big screen didn't seem to disturb Samantha's slumber, and the couch was large enough that he had his own wing, his movements dampened by a mile of upholstery and black leather. He kept looking over at her sleeping face, and his thoughts kept returning to the mystery that was Samantha Torres. What had brought her to Owl Bend? How long would she be in his life? What could he do to prolong her stay?
She frowned in her sleep, and he looked away guiltily. A moment later, he returned to watching her slumber. Her soft, full lips parted, as though she was about to speak. He wished he had some way to see what she was dreaming about.
The creases in her forehead deepened, and she began to twitch and move restlessly. Robichaud removed his padded headphones. She was talking in her sleep, murmuring. A tinny sound was still coming from the headphones in his hand, so he paused the movie that he hadn't been following anyway. She mumbled some more, whimpered, and rolled onto her back.
Suddenly, her eyes opened, and she sat upright as though pulled by invisible strings.
“It's not me,” she said croakily. “You've got the wrong one.”
Gently, Robichaud said, “Samantha? Are you having a bad dream?”
She turned her head with an eerie smoothness, looked both at him and through him and said in a low, otherworldly voice, “Not me. Wrong son.”
“Wrong son?”
She blinked, and her large, dark-brown eyes focused on him, back in reality. “What?”
“Are you awake?”
She looked around sleepily. “Sorry.”
“No need to apologize. You've been asleep for about four hours. How are you feeling?”
She smacked her lips. “Vaguely human.” She yawned and stretched self-consciously. “Thanks for the couch nap. I hope I didn't mess up your day off.”
“Not at all. I did some yard work, and read a book.”
She gestured at the TV screen with her chin. “Was that before or after the Terminator?”
“Okay, I read one chapter and nearly fell asleep.” He used the remote to switch the computer that was hooked up to the TV over to a screen saver. “Hey, when you were dreaming just now, do you remember what that dream was about?”
Her cheeks grew pink and she covered her mouth. Robichaud had thought she couldn't possibly be any more beautiful than when she was sleeping, but seeing her blush was a whole new level of desirability.
“Was I talking in my sleep?”
“A little. You were saying 'You've got the wrong one.' Or 'wrong son.' What was that about?”
She shrugged and turned to focus on folding up the crocheted blanket. “Could have been anything. Dreams don't make a lot of sense.”
He grinned. “It's okay that you were dreaming about me in an Elvis jumpsuit. I don't mind being fetishized.”
She rolled her eyes, sighed, and turned to look at the photographic images displaying on the large flat screen. “That's a dark, scary-looking canyon,” she said.
“And aptly named the Black Canyon. That's the Gunnison River running through it, and the walls are black because they're volcanic schist.”
She watched the screen, rapt, as she used her fingers to smooth out her minor hair tousles from sleeping. “These are really good photos,” she said. “Did you take them?”
“Uh.” He realized his mistake, and a blast of adrenaline pushed sweat from his glands. His mouth went dry. He reached for the remote control and accidentally fumbled it to the floor with a clatter. “These aren't actually my photos. They're Warren Jameson's.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Did you go see his art show at the fire hall? I don't remember seeing you there.”
“I didn't stay long,” she said softly, her gaze still on the screen.
“This isn't right,” he said. “I'll shut this slide show down and put on something else.”
She waved one hand. “No, don't stop it. I really want to see these.”
“Are you—” He gagged on the dryness of his throat, coughed, and tried again. “Are you sure?” Internally, he admonished himself for having the materials so blatantly available inside his house. Warren Jameson's camera hadn't survived his fatal fall, but the memory card with the digital photos had. The man's next of kin, his aunt, hadn't noticed the absence of the tiny memory card, but now Robichaud could be in trouble.
Samantha kept staring at the photos, wide eyed, lips slightly parted. Her eyes glistened with tears she quickly blinked away. More words came to his mouth and escaped before he could stop himself. “Don't tell anyone.”
She blinked and turned to him, eyes gleaming. “Who would I tell?”
He swallowed hard. “It's just that... I shouldn't really have these pictures.”
“But they're so beautiful,” she said, and she turned back to the screen.
They're so beautiful. She was right. The photos were beautiful, and that was reason enough for him to have them. If it was perfectly understandable to her, there might be no problem. He reached for a pillow and held it on his lap to calm his hands.
“These are on random shuffle?” she asked. “I'd like to see them in order.”
He reached down slowly to pick up the remote control from the floor. Without looking at her, he said, “I should warn you: The album ends with the last photos he took before he died.”
She sucked in air through her teeth. “I want to see the whole thing, right to the end.”
Right to the end. “So be it,” he said, and he brought up the menu to toggle the slide show.
“Wait,” she said. “What are those files that are grayed out?”
“Near-duplicates and accidents.”
“Accidents?” Her tone was suspicious, accusatory.
Robichaud swallowed down his guilt. “Yeah. I guess maybe they're test shots. They're blurry and facing away from the view.”
She was very still, studying him and then the screen, moving only her eyes. “I'd like to see them all,” she said coolly.
He adjusted the settings and started the slide show of the last seven days of Warren's life.
The show began with images of dew drops on spider webs. It took two minutes to finish the day's shots. The second day had fewer, and finished almost as quickly as it had begun, with a spectacular crimson sunset framed by trees and the local red and rocky terrain.
Robichaud studied Samantha's face as she watched the images, the changing screen casting her pretty features in red, blue, and green. He had to remind himself to keep breathing.
There was a knock on his screen door. He'd left the outer door open for ventilation, and now his elderly neighbor was there, practically inside the room with them, peering through the screen.
Mrs. Dawson said, “Sorry, Danny. I didn't realize you had a guest.” She lifted one creased palm and waved. “Hello, dear!”
Robichaud jumped up from the couch and went to see what his neighbor wanted. Rather than make introductions, he stepped outside to speak with his neighbor. Mrs. Dawson explained she had come by to borrow a gardening claw. The handle had come off hers.
It took ten minutes to complete the tool-lending transaction, in which he loaned her his gardening claw and took both pieces of hers, with a promise he'd fix the parts using super-strong glue. She kept glancing at the screen of the door, but was too mannered to push for an explanation.
He waited until his friendly and inquisitive neighbor was gone before he went back to the house. No sooner had he pulled open the screen door than Samantha came bolting out like a spooked horse fleeing a barn fire.
“It's okay,” he said, reaching out to catch her by the waist. “I'm right here. I didn't go far.”
She dodged his arm and put some distance between them before turning around to face him, dark eyes blazing with emotion.
“Why do you have his photos?” she demanded.
He shrugged. There was no explanation that would make his actions acceptable.
She shook her head and started walking toward the road. She called back over her shoulder, “Thanks for the nap, but I should be getting back. I'm meeting someone soon and I don't want to be late.”
He sensed the last part was a lie. Earlier, she'd admitted to having no plans at all for the day. She was making excuses to get away from him.
“Samantha, wait. I'll give you a ride back to your car.”
She waved away his offer. “I'm fine. I need the fresh air, anyway.”
He watched her march away. The journey back to her car would be a mile and a half. She'd be fine. And maybe it was for the best. Every minute with her was a form of sweet torture. He didn't know how long he'd be able to remain professional.
He walked back into the house and looked at the television, which had turned a dark gray. He swore under his breath and ran to check the slot in the computer where he'd had Warren's camera's memory card plugged in.
The memory card was gone.
He checked the computer's local drive, where he thought he'd saved a copy of all the images. The photos folder was empty, and if the files had once been there, they'd been permanently deleted, not findable in the recycling bin. What was Samantha up to? What had she seen on the photos to cause such a panic?
He cursed again, reached for his phone, and made a call.
“I need your help,” he said with a sigh.
* * *
Samantha had covered nearly a mile, and was sweating under the midday sun. Her throat was parched, but even her thirst couldn't take her mind off the evidence in her pocket. She had to get to her vehicle, get to safety, and find someone she could trust. She might just get in the car and start driving, not stopping until she was two states away.
A compact car slowed and rolled along beside her.
“Need a lift?” called out the driver.
As she leaned forward to peer inside the car, she stepped on some loose gravel and rolled her ankle painfully. If she hadn't needed a lift before, she certainly did now.
The driver was the diminutive Charles DeWitt, his eyes bulging with concern for her.
“Sure,” she said, and she climbed into the vehicle. The interior was spotless, and so cool it gave her a chill. She rubbed her arms and then reached for her seat belt, her hands shaking visibly.
Charles said, “You look like you could use a drink.” He made a small snort. “That's what I thought when I saw you looking lost at the art show, too. That nice lady could use a drink!”
She let out an absurd laugh. “I probably could use one. Thanks for the offer, but I don't have time. I'm meeting a friend shortly.”
“Did you just come from the deputy sheriff's house?”
She ignored the question and changed the topic by asking about the air conditioning controls.
The driver turned left at the lights, moving away from the diner. Samantha cleared her throat. “Actually, I'm going to Yolanda's, if you don't mind.”
“Oh! Sure. I'll make a couple right turns up ahead.” The driver reached over and popped open the glove box. There was a silver flask and a bottle of water. “Help yourself to whichever one you need, or both.”
Samantha's hands shook as she reached forward. She'd not had a drink yet that day and was already in withdrawal. She told herself, as she had many times before, that this was the last drink, and she took a swig from the flask. It was gin, and as sweet to her as water in the desert. She thanked the driver and switched over to the water. The white lid didn't crack when she twisted it off. She thought of germs and wiped the rim with the hem of her blouse before taking a swig.
A few minutes later, they were still driving. The rocking of the car was so relaxing. Were they driving in circles, caught in a loop? Her eyelids fluttered. She thought she saw the neon sign for the diner grow larger and then disappear over her shoulder. She started to ask how much longer Charles would take to run his errands, but her head was full of cotton, and the words wouldn't form in her throat.
She rested her head back on the headrest and closed her eyes. She thought of the camera memory card in the tiny pocket of her shorts, and then she lost consciousness.
Chapter 13
June 10th
3:15 p.m.
Residence of Ricky and Hilda Francis, Los Angeles, CA
Hilda paced the living room, her thoughts racing. She hadn't been in a panic like this since the twins had woken up with a terrible fever in the middle of the night. The panicked feeling was intense, and it was the same instinct. She had to do something.
Her husband, Ricky, was skeptical. That night, he'd been the one who'd run a cool bath to bring down the twins' fevers, and now, once again, he was the one who was calm. And once again, his urgings that Hilda remain calm and not panic had the opposite effect.
“We shouldn't have let this go on for so long,” Hilda said, still pacing.
Ricky pointed to the living room rug, which had already suffered so much abuse from the twins and their wheeled toys. “You're going to wear a hole in that poor rug,” he said. “Why don't you get on a plane and fly out there?”
“To Colorado?” She stopped in her tracks. For Hilda Francis, the only thing more terrifying than her friend Samantha being in trouble would be leaving the three boys to burn down the house.
Ricky sat up on the sofa with a groan and reached for his laptop.
Hilda said, “No, I can't go. I won't leave you and the kids. It's time Sammy pulled herself together, anyway.”
“Calm down,” he said, irritating her with the useless command for the tenth time that day. “I'm not booking a ticket. I'm getting some phone numbers.” He tapped away at the keyboard. “We can check the local hospitals, and highway patrol. The state troopers would have a report if she's been in an accident. What town is she supposed to be in? Aspen?”
“No,” Hilda said guiltily.
Ricky looked up from the laptop, eyebrows raised. “What's going on?”
She swayed left and right, paced once, and took a seat on the front edge of the room's rocking chair. “She's in Owl Bend.”
He took a deep, audible breath, and stroked his beard. That was where Ricky and Hilda had started their honeymoon tour of the southwest—a trip they had recommended to all their friends for their own honeymoons and anniversaries.
“She's at the honeymoon place?”
Hilda swallowed hard. “Yeah.”
“By herself,” h
e said.
“She wanted to be by herself. You know Sammy. She never wants to be a burden on other people.”
He shook his head. “I can't believe it's gotten so bad.”
Hilda could only nod in agreement. They stared at each other in silence for a moment.
Finally, Ricky said, “We need to check the psychiatric wards.”
“Okay,” she said weakly. Now that the secret was out, the tension that had been holding her upright lessened, and she slumped back in the rocking chair with a creak. “Will you help me make the calls?”
“You know I'd do anything for Sammy.” He gave his laptop screen a sad look. “I wish I'd known how bad it's gotten. We could have done something sooner.” He tapped the keyboard and frowned at the screen. “Airfare isn't that much,” he said. “We could all go, as a family. It could be a vacation.”
Hilda smiled for the first time in two days. “Honey, traveling with a pair of hyper two-year-olds is not a vacation.”
Ricky smiled back and gave her a slow blink. “Don't worry. We're going to find Samantha and get her the help she needs.” He tapped at the keyboard again. He was going to say something about Samantha drinking again, but he bit back the words. There was no point in voicing their worst fears. Even without verbalizing them, they flashed through his head. She could be dead in a ravine somewhere.
The first number he found was for the local law enforcement. He called the number and got a man who introduced himself as Deputy Sheriff Daniel Robichaud.
Ricky explained who he was and why he was calling.
There was a long pause. Ricky thought he'd lost the connection, but then Robichaud spoke. “I know Samantha Torres,” he said. “In fact, I just saw her yesterday morning for breakfast. When was the last time you spoke to her?”
Ricky checked with his wife and then answered, “The night before last. Sammy and my wife talk at least once a day, and they send each other text messages constantly. But we haven't heard a peep since Wednesday. Today's Friday, so I guess that was the eighth.”
There was noise on the line, and the muffled sound of people talking. Robichaud said, “Can you be reached at this number, Mr. Francis? I've got to check on something, and I'll call you right back. Shouldn't take more than twenty minutes.”