“Franklin?”
“Yeah.”
“We’re tracking down a potential witness, someone saying they saw a suspicious car on the street near Cherry’s house, but so far that’s it.”
“Is Flaherty really involved in this?”
“Absolutely. We need to find him.”
Barnes nodded.
“I met a kid one time,” Dr. Hill said. “High school kid. Captain of the football team, good grades and all that, world in his hands. Thing was, he loved Soundgarden. I guess his old man was a big fan. One night, the kid gets a chance to ride Chris Cornell, you know?”
“And he eventually killed himself, right?”
“Just a couple weeks later,” Dr. Hill said. He looked Barnes in the eyes. “Question is, what was the crime? Homicide or suicide?”
“Meaning, did Chris Cornell kill that kid, or did Chris Cornell just kill himself again?”
Dr. Hill looked out the window. “Or did that kid, when he chose to get on the machine and resurrect the man from a digital grave, kill Chris Cornell?”
Barnes shrugged, shook his head.
“What did Freddie Cohen want you to know?” Dr. Hill asked.
“That he was sorry for hurting my brother.”
“Do you believe him?”
Barnes looked off through the windshield. “He loved Ricky, too.”
9
The house was nearly dark. Faint light poured from the kitchen windows. Barnes took the pizza box off the passenger-side floor and got out of the truck. The street was quiet, save for the buzzing of the sodium-arc streetlights. The porch steps creaked beneath his feet. The screen door yawned on its hinges as he pulled it open. Once inside, he eased the door closed behind him, applying low pressure until the bolt clicked home.
Jessica was alone in the kitchen. The light came from the hanging lamp above the table where she was sitting. The scene resembled an interrogation room. A cup of Red Rose tea sat in front her, the bag on a spoon next to the cup. No steam rose from the liquid. Her elbows were propped on the Formica. Her eyes were red from crying. She went rigid when she looked at him, no doubt from the sight of his bald head. New tears formed and fell.
Barnes set down the pizza box and flipped it open. The pie inside looked like a domestic violence incident. He closed the lid and sat down across from her. Her tea smelled like vodka.
“Why are you doing this?” Jessica said.
Barnes hung his head. He thought back to when he and Jessica had first met. She was a teacher then. He was hot on the Calavera case and she had been so understanding. But the killer had entered her home, riding Barnes’s coattails through the door. He’d bound her hands and feet, tortured her, painted her face like a death bride. Only a last-ditch act of mercy had saved her life. How had she managed to forgive him, much less stick by his side, marry him, and give birth to their son? He had flash memories of arguments, of the front door slamming behind him as he left, in front of him as she left. Could be any married couple in the world, right? Memories of reuniting, apologies, makeup sex. The scent of bacon at breakfast, smiles and laughter over eggs and coffee. She’d stayed at her mother’s, admitted they’d spent the night bashing him. Him rushing out the door in response to a call from dispatch, her waving in the doorway, pregnant in a hoodie and sweatpants.
“It’s who I am,” Barnes said, looking up at Jessica.
“A munky? That’s who you are?”
“A detective. A man is lost. A little girl has been kidnapped.”
Jessica placed her hand on top of his. At first her touch felt light and loving, but she wrapped her fingers around his palm and squeezed hard. A sharp pain shot up Barnes’s forearm.
“I won’t let you destroy this family.”
“I would never do that.”
“You’re already doing it.”
Barnes opened his mouth to reply but found no words.
“I need you to leave,” Jessica said.
“I’m sorry,” Barnes said, “I—”
“No!” Jessica said, squeezing his hand harder than he imagined she could. The pain made him grit his teeth. “No explanations. No lies. Just leave. Now.”
Barnes stood up. His chair fell back and clacked the floor.
Jessica didn’t release his hand. She glared up at him, her lips curled in rage. “Leave!”
Barnes tried to step away, but her grip was terrible. Their hands shook wildly with her ferocity. “Let go,” he said.
“Leave!” Jessica said.
Barnes closed one eye to the pain. “How can I leave if you won’t let go?”
She pulled him down, closer to her face. Her nostrils flared before she spoke. “Please leave . . .”
“Let. Go.”
She let go.
Barnes backed out of the kitchen and turned into the hallway, shaking the pain out of his hand. He went up the stairs to the master bedroom, rummaged through the closet, and found his old service pistol on a high shelf, a .45-caliber Glock inside its shoulder holster. The gun’s chamber was empty. He popped the magazine and found it full. He ratcheted a round into the chamber and holstered the gun. He slid into the holster and put his jacket back on. His badge hung from a hook. He reached for it but then stopped. He left it where it was.
He turned to leave the bedroom to find Richie standing in the doorway. He was in his pajamas, rubbing his right eye.
“So sweet.” The breathless voice.
“Shhh.”
“What’s up, sleepyhead?” Barnes said.
“What happened to your hair?”
Barnes went to Richie and squatted down to the boy’s height. He leaned the crown of his head toward him. “Want to feel?”
Richie rubbed his hand over the bristle of Barnes’s head. “Cool.”
Barnes joined Richie in rubbing the bristle.
“I thought we were getting pizza?” Richie said.
Barnes looked up. “I’m sorry, bud. I got distracted.” He absently spun the decoder ring on his pinkie finger.
“What’s that?” Richie asked.
Barnes showed the ring to the boy.
“Neat,” Richie said. He reached out to touch it.
“I got this ring from my brother,” Barnes said. “Your uncle.”
Richie stopped short. “My uncle?”
“Aw. Let him. Play with it.” The breathless voice.
Richie screwed up his face. “What?”
It took a moment for Barnes to realize the voice’s words had come out of his mouth. His core went cold. He closed his eyes and fought not to shiver in front of the boy.
“Are you okay?” Richie said.
“No.” The breathless voice.
“Shhh.” Barnes fought the shiver until he won, until the presence of the voice’s owner was pushed back into the corner of his mind. He smiled at his son. “You do have an uncle.”
“No I don’t.”
“Trust me, kid. You do.”
“You never talked about him before.”
“It was too hard, I guess.”
“Why? Is he dead?”
Barnes nodded. “A long time ago.”
“How did he give you the ring then?”
“When we were boys,” Barnes said, “your uncle always used to send me on scavenger hunts. I guess maybe he knew I liked to find things, you know? He’d have me out in the woods or at some supermarket looking for clues. It got to the point where I didn’t even know he’d set up some mystery for me until I was halfway through it. He’d come up with these intricate riddles to solve.”
“That’s why you became a detective.”
“Right.” Barnes smirked and chucked Richie’s chin. “Maybe you’ll be a detective yourself.”
“What’s intricate mean?”
Barnes smiled. “Hard.”
“He sounds like fun,” Richie said.
“He was a good kid. You remind me of him.”
“I wish I could’ve met him,” Richie said.
“Me, too.”
Barnes tousled the boy’s hair. “Now off to bed, huh?”
Richie bolted down the hallway toward his room.
Barnes went downstairs. He glanced into the kitchen to find Jessica still there, her head on her forearms, which were crossed on the table.
“Leave her be.” The familiar voice.
He headed for the front door and reached for the knob. A noise stopped him. He looked back over his shoulder and up the steps. Richie was there, clutching the balusters like the bars of a jail cell. He formed a monkey bite and held it out. Barnes formed one in response. They silently performed their secret handshake across the empty space.
The night air was muggy from the recent rain. Barnes rolled the windows down on his truck. His cell rang as he backed out of the driveway. He checked the caller ID—UNKNOWN—and answered. “What?”
“You found. The shoebox. Yes?” It was the same caller as before, that same breathless voice as the one speaking from within his mind.
“Fuck you,” Barnes said. He disconnected the call and threw the phone down. He pulled up the street and turned onto the main road.
The cell rang again.
Barnes picked the phone up, connected the call, and put it to his ear.
“What was. In there?” the caller said.
Barnes still couldn’t place a face or a name with the voice.
“Silent treatment. Eh, detective?”
“You tell me what was in there,” Barnes said. “You’ve been Cohen. You must know.”
“Couple of. G.I. Joe. Villains. A comic book. A picture. Of a fat. Kid’s dog. Yes?”
Barnes said nothing.
“I don’t care. About the box. Detective. What was in the. Envelope?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“Because I can. Help you.”
“You don’t know me. I’m not even sure you’re . . .” Barnes pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Shhh.”
“I see,” the caller said. “You think I’m. A voice inside. Your head. Don’t you, John? One you. Weren’t able to. Fully suppress?”
Barnes didn’t reply.
“You think. If you look at your. Cell phone screen. Right now. You’ll find it blank. Because this call. Is in your mind. Well, go ahead. And look. I’ll wait.”
Barnes took the phone away from his ear and stared at the screen. He faintly heard the caller whistling the theme song to Jeopardy. The line was connected. He watched the call timer go up by one second, then two, then three. He put the phone back to his ear.
“Still there. John?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“If you. Say so.”
“How can you help me?” Barnes said.
“Tell me. What was in the. Envelope.”
“It has nothing to do with the case,” Barnes said. “Nothing to do with finding Flaherty or Cherry Daniels.”
“Are you. Certain?”
“How could it?”
“That may be. Revealed. In due time.”
“Listen to him.” The familiar voice. “Solve the riddle.”
“Shhh.”
“No,” Barnes said as he pulled into a convenience store lot and parked. “First I need to know who you are. What’s your stake in this?”
“Just a concerned. Citizen. No more.”
“That’s not enough,” Barnes said. He disconnected the call and put the phone down. He sat gazing through the windshield at the convenience store, the overhead fluorescent lights, the clerk in a red vest slumped on the counter, bored. Aisles of chips and candy bars, magazines, beef jerky.
Bourbon behind the register.
Barnes left his phone in the truck and went into the store. He came back with a pint in a brown bag. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed at the bottle’s contents, eyes closed. His mouth watered. His blood flow seemed to slow, his heartbeat dialing down a notch. He tilted the bottle back and filled his mouth with the whiskey. He swished it, savored it, and swallowed the burn.
Barnes capped his bourbon and picked up the phone. Ten missed calls from UNKNOWN while he was in the store. The phone rang again. He connected the call and brought it to his ear.
“Maybe I’m. The guy,” the caller said. “Who’s got Flaherty. Chained up. In his basement. Maybe if. You don’t play nice. I’ll stick a butcher. Knife. In his guts. And yank it up. To his neck.”
“Maybe you already did that,” Barnes said. “Maybe you’ve already killed both Flaherty and Cherry Daniels, and now you want me, too.”
“Forget Little Cher. She’s dead and. You know it. Flaherty will be, too. What was in. The envelope?”
It’s all in my head, what difference does it make?
Well, hearing voices is one thing, but talking with them? Exchanging ideas?
They’ll lock you up.
“Detective,” the caller said.
What if he’s real?
“The envelope.”
What if he can help?
“Please tell me.”
“A letter from my kid brother,” Barnes said. “Plus a decoder ring and a cheap watch.”
“What did the. Letter say?”
“There was a riddle.”
“What was it?”
“I am not in closed drawers,” Barnes said, “but I do cut a shine. I am yours, but you are not mine.”
“Hmm. Tough one.”
“Ricky was a smart kid.”
“What’s not in. A closed drawer?”
“Easy,” Barnes said. “Light.”
“That sounds right,” the caller said. “Okay then. How about. But I do. Cut a shine?”
“Something my mom used to say. Whenever Ricky and I would be acting out, making fools of ourselves, she’d say we were ‘cutting a shine.’”
“Your mother. Was she. A good woman?”
“Yes.”
“And your father. A good man?”
“A better man than you.”
“Most are. I think,” the caller said. “The second. Line of your riddle. Is literal. The relationship. Between light and dark. For one to exist. The other is required. What literally. Cuts a shine?”
“Don’t know,” Barnes said.
“What about. I am yours. But you are. Not mine?”
“What can you own that can’t own you?”
“Lots of things,” the caller said.
“Relate it to light and dark,” Barnes said.
“The sun? The moon?”
“Can’t own those.”
“But they. Shine on us. They give us light.”
“Sure,” Barnes said, “but . . . wait. I’ve got it. It’s not light and dark, but light and shadow. If light cannot be in a closed drawer, neither can shadow. And what cuts a shine but a shadow?”
“Careful now,” the caller said. “You’re close. To it.”
“You already knew, you bastard?”
“Tsk, tsk,” the caller said. “Vulgar language. Will not help. I am merely. Telling you what. You already. Know. The answer you. Have given me.”
“Shadow.”
“Yes,” the caller said. “A man has. A shadow. But the shadow. Doesn’t have him.”
“Jesus,” Barnes said, “that’s right.”
Silence on the line.
“Hello?”
More silence. Barnes took the phone away from his ear to find the call had been disconnected. He dialed Franklin.
“I guess you don’t care if I sleep, eh?” Franklin said when he picked up.
Barnes checked the clock on the dashboard: 2:04 a.m. “Sorry. Look, I need you to set up a trace on whoever calls my cell phone.”
“Say what?”
“I’ve been getting phone calls from a guy who claims he might have Flaherty locked up in his basement. No number coming through on caller ID, though, just UNKNOWN.”
“Hold on,” Franklin said. “You got a call from our guy?”
“At first I thought maybe it was . . .”
“It was what?”
“A voice. I
n your. Head.” The breathless voice.
“Shhh.”
“Nothing. Next time he calls we need him tracked.”
“Did he mention Cherry Daniels?”
“He didn’t deny it when I brought her up. He said he wanted to help me. I asked who he was, and he said maybe he was the guy holding Flaherty. He threatened to gut him if I didn’t let him help me. Claims he’s been on the machine as Freddie Cohen, Flaherty, and me, even you.”
“Then he’s police.”
“That’s what I thought. We need to track him.”
“A guy like this, he’s calling you from a burner. Plus he won’t be at the same location each time.”
“It’s worth a shot.”
Franklin motorboated his lips. “Yeah. All right. I’ll run your call records and we’ll start tracking you.”
“Good.”
“Where you at?” Franklin said.
“What do you mean?”
“I hear traffic. Did she boot you?”
Barnes rolled up the windows. “We’ll get it figured out.”
“I’m sorry, buddy,” Franklin said. “I never meant—”
“We’re good,” Barnes said. He disconnected the call and pulled out of the parking lot.
10
Shadow.
Barnes lifted his hand and examined the decoder ring on his pinkie finger. He was sitting on the edge of a bed in a room at a run-down motel called The Fleabag. How kitsch. He set down the nearly empty pint and dialed in the letters of SHADOW to find a number combination—19-8-1-4-15-23.
1981 could represent a year. Combine it with 4 and 15 for April 15, 1981? He pulled the newspaper from the shoebox. The print year wasn’t 1981, the month wasn’t April, and the date wasn’t the fifteenth. He set the newspaper aside and checked the back of the Rufus picture. Nothing written there. He picked up the comic book. The edition was printed in 1975. Giant-Size Fantastic Four, number four, featuring Madrox, the Multiple Menace. On the cover, the Fantastic Four were being attacked from all sides by what looked like an army of men, but really it was just one character, Madrox, who could split into multiple versions of himself.
“Run with this.” The familiar voice.
Barnes locked his jaw and gripped his temples. The idea of following the commands of a voice inside his mind was . . . well, crazy. Such a notion fought against the work he’d put in to defeat the voices in the first place. He thought, “No.”
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