Second Life (Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series Book 4)

by D. F. Bailey

  He yanked the door open and stepped onto the asphalt. He stood for a moment, barefoot, as the stranger jogged to the T-junction and turned right. Finch began to run. The early-afternoon heat from the asphalt seared his feet, but within four or five steps he knew he could manage the pain. He pushed himself forward and within ten paces he was sprinting toward the corner. When he reached the stop sign, he paused, turned right, then looked left. Nothing. He took another few steps forward and scanned the street ahead. No one. At the far end of the block he saw a taxi slip along Union Street and then vanish.

  By the time he limped back to the cottage a new sense of dread seized him. He took the letter into the living room and flopped onto the sofa that faced the fireplace. He studied the lettering on the envelope. His name had been carefully printed by hand in blue ink. He slid his index finger under the seal and withdrew a single, folded sheet of plain white paper. He flattened the paper on the coffee table and read the message typed in bold caps with a nondescript, sans serif font. Helvetica, perhaps. It read: LAST DAY. @R3V3LATIONNOW.

  He stared at the message, then set it aside and sat in silence for what he guessed was another five minutes. He considered calling Eve or Wally. Maybe Fiona. Instead he decided to contact Calinda Cruz or her partner, Vickers. The FBI would want to know about this and more than anything he wanted to pass it on and forget it. But first he had to finish the story. Hit the deadline. For once that old journalistic saying took on a literal meaning.

  When the pain in his feet subsided he climbed the stairs and limped over to his desk and sat in front of the laptop. The cursor continued to blink at the point where he’d left off, the point where he’d been wondering how to answer his lingering question.

  He now thought that he had an answer: “Go forward.” In other words, no matter what the odds, clear your head, be honest with yourself and press on. Could life be so simple? Probably not, but it’s an answer that can see you through the next five minutes. An answer good enough to wrap up the story and publish it in the eXpress.

  When he was satisfied with his work, he sent the file to Jeanine Fix. Twenty minutes later he checked the company website and saw the story posted to the top of the home page. She hadn’t changed a word.

  He was done. It was impossible to barter with the dead and he knew that he could do no more. If Kali Rood’s surrogates stood by her pledge, then the Barabbas ultimatum was now terminated. He’d kept his end of the bargain.

  But would they?

  ~ Bonus Feature 1 ~

  “Preview and Review”

  If you’d like to receive free Advance Review Copies of forthcoming titles in the Will Finch Mystery Thriller Series, just follow these steps:

  Write an honest two- or three-sentence book review of any book in the Finch series and post it on that book’s Amazon page.

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  ~ Bonus Feature 2 ~

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  For a special sneak peak of Fire Eyes,

  a W. H. Smith First Novel Award Finalist,

  turn to the next page.

  FIRE EYES

  1

  The bomb went off a little after one in the morning. It was a beautiful thing. There was blues and greens and thick yellows that blended in with the smoke to make it all look like mustard gas in some World War I movie. And the sound of it was much louder than I thought. I guess it could have been the noise alone that brought the cops. But the look of it — the colors — they were much more than I hoped for. Damn it, they were beautiful.

  But what happened to Renee, that’s something else. It was the last thing I expected. She tried to make everything so casual, carrying the bomb the way she did under her arm. First she spins around and smiles like there’s no care to the world and moves up the sidewalk in her dream of ballet. She points her toe to the ground once, twice — then, as she turns on one foot, the bomb explodes and breaks the night into a thousand smoking greens and yellows and reds, with a huge blast like a rocket burst echoing off the walls of the mountains. And then it’s all over before you can really see it and in the end she’s worse than dead because the bomb blew everything apart. There’s a crater gutted into the sidewalk and suddenly all the lights in the First City Electric building black out. A minute later there’s a flicker of light in the windows and then the power surges back to life. Only the front door has any sign of damage, two windows shattered from their steel frames. And along the sidewalk, halfway up from the road, her handkerchief rests where it fell. Except for that, there’s nothing left at all. Not even the baby.

  Yes, she’s the one that didn’t come back. I remember her saying it would be like a war, and in a war there’s always some that don’t come home. I always thought she was talking about me. Specially when I put the bomb together in the lab.

  “No, no,” I tell her, “I’ll be careful. I always tamp real careful when I’m making these things.”

  Making the bomb is when the Power comes into my mind. That’s when the danger is worst. So I tamp the guts of it down into the shell with cotton balls. Cotton’s best because it keeps the moisture of my fingers away from everything so none of the electrics can short out. And it’s soft enough so I can build the most dangerous parts in a gentle way.

  “Just be sure,” she says and backs to the corner of the room near the mattress. She thinks she can dive under it if anything triggers accidental. She doesn’t know that if something triggers she’d be dead before she could even see it.

  “I am,” I tell her, “just don’t even breathe.” I can hear her footsteps backing to the mattress. It’s the kind of noise that gives me the Power. Everyone else backing off and there I am doing the impossible. Nobody else can touch it but me.

  “Steady out your fingers,” she says.

  “Just quit your talking.” Any interruption’s like poison. Finally I tamp the last of the explosives into the canister and seal the shell off with a waterproof cap. That way I can leave it outside in a pinch and if rain comes there’s no problem. Just wait her out till I’m ready. And I can either set it automatic or by remote. Hell, the remote’s a dream these days. Some even do it with one of those garage closers. I heard of one guy who’s triggering them with remote-control TV channel changers. That’s a tough one to believe. But can’t you see it? Parking a block down the road and just waiting till the cops come, then click it to channel 13 and WHAM! — they’re goners.

  But there wasn’t a remote on Renee’s. I should’ve put one in but it was her fault, because she wanted it timed for thirty-three-and-a-third minutes. Just like a record, she says. That’s rule one. Never allow no one else in the lab. But she was a forceful one. She’d come in anytime she pleased and stick around and seldom do as I told her. You’ve got to admire that in a way, because most of these modern women’s bitches are just hot air and no bras. Not Renee, though, she’d stick it out to the end whether there was shit in the hole or not.

  That’s why she took the shell instead of me. That and the fact she could pass the security check. It’s the one thing they gave her for working there three years: a little plastic badge with her picture on one corner that pins to her shirt so they don
’t stick a knife in her guts just for walking in the front door after hours.

  We drove there together and had the banger rolled in flannel blankets in the back seat. We even borrowed one of those baby harnesses that lock into the seat belts. If the cops stopped us then it’d look like some baby sleeping on the way home. Even cops wouldn’t disturb no baby.

  “Roll it up nice and easy,” I tell her when we’re setting out.

  “It’s so cute,” she says, “what’ll we call him?”

  “Nothing. And you shouldn’t fix yourself on the idea of having a kid.” But to keep her happy I add on a new touch. “Or we could call it Billy Junior, if you really want to.”

  She starts laughing like this is the joke-of-the-week. “When you name it after yourself it shows you’re egotistical.”

  “Nothing wrong with a little pride,” I tell her as she pulls the blanket right over the baby’s head so he can sleep like a newborn kitten.

  We drive to the electricity offices in the Camaro. It takes about an hour and a half altogether, when you add in the time for the stop at the 7-Eleven and then the half-hour stop we made when she started crying. At least that’s how it began. After that I think she went a little crazy on me. She was looking up at the stars and her whole face was wet from the tears and then she tried to explain everything between us. It’s the kind of thing you don’t want to dwell on. People will stop trusting you if you talk about the truth. Especially when you lay everything out person to person.

  Anyway, we just about forget the bomb, it looks so much like a baby and the music blasting out of the radio is such a lure away from what we’re really doing. When we get to the building she grabs it up very softly, just like a kid, under the ass and around the belly. I sit back and watch her go up the sidewalk. She starts to dance a little, like she’s got one of those Fifties songs in her head, and pretends to be dancing at the prom. Christ, how ridiculous. Then a handkerchief slips from her pocket and drifts to the ground. She turns around without noticing it and pulls the baby to her chest and shows me how she’s breast-feeding the newborn like a good mother should do. For a second I even think about being that little baby and sucking on the mother-nipple and how good it’s got to taste.

  She strides up the walk and does a little ballet turn. But it’s no place to play ballerina, so I get out of the car and whisper up to her as loud as I dare.

  “Stop that assin’ around, Renee. Just drop the baby off and stop that jerk-off stuff.”

  She smiles that devilish smile she uses when she knows she’s gone one step farther than I ever would. It’s like a contest between us. Sometimes we’ll try to out-chicken the other. When someone finally backs off, it shows where all the nerves really are. The winner gets to leer it into the loser and it’s a big deal until the next time comes. Then it’s really up to the loser. He’s gotta shine.

  But with this baby there shouldn’t be no goof-assing. I’ve seen guys lose anything from their fingers to their life in one sudden flash. It’d be so quick you’d blink to shut it away, then open your eyes and the whole world has changed. A guy dead here. One guy with a hand off there. Maybe another guy with his stomach ripped open and his kidney flopped onto the ground. And it happens from no cause at all. Maybe God says, “Okay, now you blow up those combat engineers in F-squad. Them soldiers don’t matter no more.” Then the bomb just flashes and it’s over.

  “Gentle that baby,” I whisper, “until you get inside.”

  Then she smiles more heavenly than I’ve ever seen. The Devil part turns into something sweet and she does another ballerina turn along the sidewalk.

  And that’s where it blows. The gas colors pour out like mustard steam and for some reason my eyes don’t blink at all. They just suck it in like a mind volcano so I get to see everything flying apart.

  First her smile washes out. Those angel lips fall off like the great hotels dropped by the real demolition experts. They’re there one second and the next they’re just gone. The whole wall of her face, smooth and clear as it is, turns into rubble and falls onto itself until there’s nothing left but a pile of broken bricks and bones. There’s no look of sadness, no idea that the end has come.

  I run up the sidewalk after the first shock passes and look into the smoldering crater. I’m balanced there on the sidewalk, on my toes with one knee bent forward, like a wild deer in the forests ready to disappear into the night bush. But something pulls me in closer, down to where her body should be. The Devil is flying out of her and I squat over and take a good sniff of the blasting powders steaming up from the pit, then I look around and see everything perfectly. The brown brick building with two shattered front windows, the parked car, the grass and sidewalk, those prickle bushes next to the link fence. I know exactly how to run and break away like that deer in the woods, straight down the sidewalk jumping the lawns and shrubs, I hop the last bush and duck into the car and close the door tight and just listen. If there’s squad cars coming you sit tight and tell ’em sweet dick when they ask. But if there’s no cops then turn the key soft and pull out as sweet as you please.

  And it works just like that. There’s no sign of a soul, so I pull out unnoticeable. I dump the baby harness off at the welfare office and no one knows the difference. It’s somebody’s free donation. Far as they’re concerned, some big-heart left it without a trace. They might even give up a prayer in the morning. Who knows how they think it through?

  Then I drive round like a bug that just found some dead squirrel. Don’t know where to go. Just take all the green lights and whenever there’s a red one turn right and keep going. After a while I sort of come to, come right out of this automatic driving and realize how useless it is. Following the lights is crazy cause no one ever took the time to organize it so the lights’ll take you somewhere. They don’t lead nowhere. Just around.

  Then I figure, okay, let’s drive back to the building and see what’s going on. It’s an hour later and I’ll just be a guy driving by on his own time. A guy who couldn’t sleep specially well and is out for a simple drive. Even at two in the morning that’s not so suspicious.

  But it’s like pulling the plug in a washtub that’s full to the top with dirty water. At first, nobody knows the drain’s free. Then a minute later the water starts sucking down and the surface rolls back and forth until the whirlpool starts. That’s when you know it’ll never stop and you can see the tiniest speck caught on the edge, right on the lip of the whirlpool at the one point just after any possible escape. There you are. On the lip. Right on the lip. Then one, two quick swirls and down into the guts of some black animal with no eyes. That’s how it is driving back there — a dizzy hell.

  When I’m a block away I can see the place has gone crazy with cops. There’s at least six squad cars with their lights flashing all blue-red, like the Devil’s still with Renee.

  I slip the car into neutral and pull up at a coast. They’ve got a roadblock set up, and two cars ahead of me a cop has his nose poked through the window, yapping at the driver. I take a good clean breath.

  After a minute the cop motions for me to unroll my window.

  “Evenin’,” he says.

  “What’s the trouble, officer?" I crane my neck and make sure I look surprised to see a roadblock set up so late at night.

  “Routine.” Then he turns more serious. “What brings you by here tonight?”

  “Just out for a drive. Changed my shift today and I couldn’t sleep so good.”

  “Let’s see your license and registration,” he says.

  I lean over to the glovebox to get the papers and he sticks his head in all the way and starts sniffing the air. You hear him do it twice. Sniff-sniff, just like Porky Pig.

  He holds the papers and license in one hand and checks my face against the picture, asks my name and address and checks my answers against the card. Then he goes to a squad car and makes some notes and radios into headquarters and lingers around his car a while.

  If they had the brains for it they
might’ve read my thoughts while I was waiting in the car lineup. But that’s not too likely. Usually cops aren’t good enough to read your thoughts. Not like the shrinks and special doctors. With a little training some of them could maybe handle it, but on the whole the cops are useless buggers. They’re much better at reading how you sweat or how your eyes twitch if there’s any little pressure inside you. And that’s what I’m doing my best to control. My face is smooth as ice. It’s just now that the sweat’s starting to come into my palms.

  “Okay, on your way.”

  “Thanks.”

  He passes the papers to me. I roll the window back up and take a deep breath. With the window up it’s like sealing him off and turning him into something stupid and ignorant. Like a cartoon.

  Then I drive off slow, obeying all the traffic rules as though I just took my driver’s test. When I get close to it I look up the sidewalk to see Renee. But the funny thing is that there’s hardly any sign of the bomb. They put a few barriers around the crater, but apart from that there’s nothing. Even the building lights are lit up like nothing ever happened. You almost wonder why the cops bothered to show up.

  But it’s probably another trick of theirs to lure me out of what’s really happened. It’s the kind of trick that might work on anybody else. It might work on me, too, except that my memory’s near perfect and I remember every little detail. Up to a point, anyhow.