Yesterday's Gone (Season Four): Episodes 19-24

by Sean Platt

  If this is my guy, why did he target a pedophile?

  Did they meet in jail?

  Mike sighed, cracked his knuckles, and leaned in closer to the monitor.

  Is this my killer?

  The only way he’d find out: visiting the only lead he had, Mrs. Mary Olson.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 7 — Boricio Wolfe

  The women talked for seven fucking years.

  Boricio wouldn’t have minded since he liked all three of the women making the hotel room smell so purty, but he was still waiting for alone time with Rose, which got him wanting the Olsons to get started on a good night’s sleep in the adjoining room. Mary was so exhausted and sick with worry, her bloodshot eyes looked like they were about to roll from her haggard face.

  “You should get to bed,” Boricio suggested, both because he ached to see Mary so tired, driving 15-plus hours was murder, and because if Mary went then Paola would follow, and with Mary Kate and Ashley out of their room, Boricio could put his pecker someplace cozy.

  “You’re right,” Mary stretched herself to standing, yawning on the way. “I do need rest.” She turned to Paola and held out her hand.

  Paola took her mom by the wrist and lowered her limb. “Not yet, I’m not really tired. I think I’ll stay up and talk to Boricio and Rose for a while.”

  Mary’s disappointment was red on her face, Boricio’s felt blue. “You sure?” she asked.

  Paola shrugged. “This new body agrees with me, I guess. I feel like I could run a mile. Besides, I slept in the car.”

  “OK,” Mary turned to Boricio and Rose. “Well then, I guess it’s good night.”

  They each swapped an adios, then Mary disappeared and left Boricio with one more body to empty from the room before he could bump fuzzies with his Morning Rose.

  “So, is this your first time in California?” Rose asked, delaying Boricio’s pleasure.

  Paola nodded. “Yeah, we were always going to come out ‘someday,’ back before … everything. Even after Mom and Dad split, we all said that we would come out to Disneyland together one day, but that never happened.”

  “What do you think of the Golden State so far?” Rose asked.

  Paola shrugged. “Not much to think, yet. This is the only place we’ve been so far. Mom drove so fast I barely saw anything outside the window. And we only stopped three times for gas and to pee. I guess I’ll know better tomorrow.” She paused, then added, “Is this your first time here?”

  Rose nodded. “Yes. Not exactly my scene, but I’m excited about how everything’s going so far. We’ve already been here longer than expected, though, and I hate that we’re still by the airport, but I don’t want to change, I just want to go home.”

  “How much longer are you staying?”

  “Until sometime next week. There are a few things we have to settle and sign and all that not-too-fun stuff, and I do want to stay long enough to see you get in The Capacitor.” Rose looked over at Boricio then back to Paola. “I know he doesn’t buy into it, but you’ll see. I bet it fixes you without you having to look for Luca.”

  Worry flickered across Paola’s too-grownup face. “I hope so,” she said, swallowing. “I think I made a big mistake … going to the hospital like I did.”

  “You’ll be fine,” Rose reassured her, patting the top of her hands. “I’m sure Veronica can get us in to see Marina, and I’m sure Marina will take great care of you once we do.”

  “If not, I’ll turn her face to marmalade.” Boricio was surprised he said it, so were the girls.

  Rose said, “Boricio!”

  Paola laughed.

  Rose turned from Boricio back to Paola and took her gently by the hand. “Sorry about that, Sweetie. He’s certainly incorrigible, but we both know Boricio would never hurt a fly.”

  Paola’s eyes widened with surprise. Fortunately, Rose’s were cast down as she stood from the couch.

  “Be right back,” Rose said. “I’ve gotta use the ladies’ room.”

  Silence hung until the bathroom door closed. Boricio scooted from his chair to Paola and said, “Ixnay on the urdermay,” in a hushed but urgent whisper.

  “You mean she doesn’t know?”

  “What the hell do you think I’m gonna say? That woman in there loves Boricio like you wouldn’t believe, and that’s keeping me stitched in ways Luca couldn’t fix. You think I’m gonna piss it to the wind? No way,” Boricio shook his head, knowing his face was uncharacteristic with worry. It had never occurred to him that either Mary or Paola might threaten his beans. “What am I supposed to say, ‘Hey, my sweet Morning Rose, while you pick the petals from that daisy and recite today’s ‘He loves me, he loves me nots,’ I should probably let you know I used to be a serial killer.”

  “Boricio!”

  Boricio growled in a whisper, “Well, I’m sorry, Kitty Cat, but you can’t expect me to say shit about dick, if it’ll make my lady leave screaming.”

  “You’ve gotta tell her,” Paola said. “Secrets that big have a way of coming out, eventually. At least if you tell her, you’re revealing the secret on your terms and giving yourself a chance that everything will work out.”

  “Really?” Boricio said, smiling. “Did you tell Mommy Dearest about your little phone call to me? You tell her how you asked me if I could ‘take care’ of that perverted peckerhead since you were afraid that Mary Mary So Contrary was gonna do something to get the Olsons in trouble?”

  “No,” Paola shot back, and scooted forward on her seat toward Boricio. “And don’t you dare, either.”

  Boricio zipped his lips and hurled an invisible key through the window. “Hell, I won’t say shit, but I thought you just said secrets were for spilling. Goose and gander ain’t swimming together, eh?”

  Boricio grinned as Paola’s brow furrowed in frustration: cute when pissed.

  The toilet flushed.

  Paola’s frown got worse, she looked like she might cry. Boricio realized that while the girl looked like an adult, and an awful lot like Mary — who could give shit as well as she could take it — Paola wasn’t as tough, at least not yet. She was still a kitty cat, like Luca had been.

  “I’m just fucking with you,” he whispered as Rose headed back over to the couch from the bathroom. “Three can keep a secret, if two are dead, or one’s Boricio. I won’t say shit.”

  “OK,” Paola said, laughing as Rose sat beside Boricio.

  “OK, what?” Rose asked.

  “I was telling Paola to pound stones on anyone looking her way, cross-eyed, funny or otherwise. She was always pretty, but a girl, now she’ll be whistling Dixie whether she means to or not, and that might give some ungentlemanly fellows the wrong error in judgment. I’m saying our girl here, in her mama’s body, needs to be ready to jab.”

  “Actually,” Paola laughed, “he said I have to beat them until they look like bruised bananas.”

  Rose laughed. “That sounds like Boricio.”

  Boricio laughed because it sure as shit did.

  They talked for another few minutes, until Paola yawned three in a row and proved her body wasn’t as infallible as she had believed. Midway through her fifth, the adjoining door parted, and Mary stepped through it. “I left my pillow in the car. And I can’t sleep without it. I’m gonna go downstairs and get it.”

  Boricio said, “This is Lost Angeles, where fuckers don’t know shit about cock.”

  “What does that even mean?” Mary asked. “If you’re going to corrupt my daughter with your vulgarity, you should at least make sense.”

  “It means,” Boricio said, “that the locals here are less forgiving than the hayseeds where you live.”

  “Hayseeds?” Mary sighed. “We’re in a nice hotel with security everywhere. I’ll be fine: I’ve dealt with aliens.”

  The absurd drew laughter. Rose said, “Oh, just let him go with you. He likes to feel like a guard dog. Makes him special.”

  Mary sighed again, said OK, then told Paola she’d be right b
ack and left the room with Boricio.

  “She’s a helluva junior, Mary, Mary,” Boricio said as they walked down the hall. “And everything’ll be fine. Don’t waste sleep on worry.”

  “You really think so?” she turned, setting her eyes into Boricio’s as if his opinion weighed pounds. They stepped into the elevator and rode it down.

  Truth was, Boricio didn’t know, had no fucking idea. He wasn’t worried; same stuff inside him that guided his purging helped him see, hear, and smell what he needed, it kept insisting everything was peaches and titties.

  “I think everything will be fine if we find Luca. And I promise to find him.”

  The elevator doors dinged into the garage. “How can you promise that?”

  He shrugged, smiling. “Because I’m Boricio.”

  Mary laughed, but before the sound left her mouth three people — two men and one woman — started walking toward them from the far side of the parking lot. One wore a mechanic’s uniform, a young man with droopy eyes and messy hair. The other guy was a giant skinhead in a tight black tee — almost painted on —hugging his fat. The third was an older woman wearing a waitress’s uniform: three opposites in equal approach.

  Boricio felt the beer-battered bullshit immediately, but couldn’t stop it fast enough, and was too late to connect the dots.

  One of the people, the woman, reached into her dress and pulled out a knife, then charged toward them, screaming.

  The skinny guy drew a crowbar from nowhere and swung it at Boricio.

  The big man ran at Mary, hacking a machete.

  Boricio stepped in front of Mary.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 8 — Brent Foster

  Brent arrived at Lara’s apartment at five before 7, anxious, uncertain how she’d accept what he had to say. Lara was about as no nonsense as you got. While they’d gotten along great, she wasn’t exactly a creative type. While most reporters, ones Brent knew, anyway, were just biding time until they finished that novel they’d been chipping away at for a decade or so, Lara didn’t care to write a book. She didn’t even read books, unless it was nonfiction, and usually only then if it was somehow work-related.

  Brent kept imagining how she’d respond when hearing his crazy tale of other worlds, aliens, and secret government forces on Black Island.

  There was a good chance she’d think he’d lost his mind, in which case he’d be heartbroken. Not just because it was yet another person who didn’t believe him and he was running out of people to call friends, but also because Lara was someone special to him, even if they’d never been romantic. They had a bond, and he didn’t want to break it by coming off like a weirdo who needed a room beside Roman’s.

  He knocked on her door, despite not having a clear narrative to tell her yet. He’d wing it and hope for the best.

  There was no answer, so he knocked again.

  A moment later, he heard locks sliding open, chain being moved, and the door opened inward. Rather than greet him at the door, Lara was behind it, just out of sight. Brent thought it odd, but stepped into the apartment anyway.

  He saw blood on the floor in the living room.

  He turned to leave, but instead found a gun in his face. Behind the gun, Ed Keenan.

  “Stay put or I will shoot you,” Ed said, pushing the door closed and locking it with his free hand.

  “What did you do to Lara?” Brent asked, looking around the living room. While he saw a lot of blood, he didn’t see a body. “Where is she?”

  “I had to take care of her,” Ed said — ice cold.

  “Take care of? You killed her?”

  “I didn’t kill her, Brent. You did. You were told to keep your mouth shut! What part of keeping your mouth shut means calling the newspaper? Or to tell perfect strangers about Black Island, huh?”

  Brent swallowed, metallic fear on his tongue. He couldn’t believe Ed had killed her — had killed Lara. He was stunned, short of breath, and feeling as if he’d been kicked in the gut and nuts at once. He was about to vomit.

  Knees wobbly, Brent moved toward the wall and leaned against it, sure he was about to pass out.

  “Who else did you tell?” Ed asked, clearly agitated.

  Brent didn’t answer. Instead, he said, “When did you start working for Black Island?”

  “I’m asking the questions,” Ed said, “Who else did you tell?”

  “I tried to get a hold of you,” Brent said, trying, in a not-so-subtle way to remind Ed that they’d been friends at one point, “to find out how you and the girls were, but Sullivan said they couldn’t find you.”

  Ed shook his head, “Who else did you tell, Brent? I need to know.”

  “Why are you doing this, Ed? Why are you doing their dirty work? You’re better than this.”

  Ed charged at him, bringing the butt of his gun against Brent’s head before he had time to register what was happening, or defend it. The pain was thunder in his skull, sharp, devastating. He spilled to the floor.

  Brent looked up, feeling woozy, seeing double of Ed and everything else, not sure if he was going to pass out or die.

  Brent asked, “Are you going to kill me?” but never heard the answer.

  * * * *

  CHAPTER 9 — Sullivan

  Sullivan took the ferry from Black to Paddock Island just before sunset, eager to get a few drinks in him, and turn the Black Island Research Facility to memory for at least a few hours.

  He ignored the nicer restaurants suggested by some of the Island scientists, deciding to eat at Joe’s Fish & Chips instead.

  He took a table in the back near a large window that looked out over much of the island. He ordered fried shrimp and French fries. He wasn’t too hungry and figured if the servings were big he’d make appetizers his meal. He waited for his food, nursing a frosty mug.

  Beer tasted more or less the same as on his world, which was good. Some foods were different. Apples here ranged from sweet to bitter. On his world they were all sour, especially the red ones. Sullivan wondered how so many things could be the same, from people with “twins” to buildings to corporations, all following the exact same paths on both worlds. It made Sullivan ponder the infinite possibilities, but when he came across a difference, like the apples, or a person the opposite of their counterpart, or simply different, like Ed Keenan, he realized the impossible number of variables. Sullivan’s head would swim and then hurt; he’d start wishing he’d never crossed over.

  One similarity on both worlds: an annoying virologist named Alex Wan, who had shadowed Sullivan whenever possible. Wan was one of those people with the need to engage in small talk, and never shut up. Worse: Wan was one of Black Island’s best scientists, so it wasn’t like Sullivan could have him fired for annoyance.

  Sullivan did his best to avoid Wan, particularly in his off hours, hard to do when both men lived on the island’s base. As he looked outside at the homes, he wondered how hard it would be to find a rental. A place of his own where he could go to at night and not have to worry about running into Wan.

  The waitress came by with two overflowing baskets of food that smelled deserving of their grease spots. She was cute, reminded Sullivan a little of Amy.

  He wondered what Amy’s counterpart on this world was like. Was she married? Did she have a child? Sullivan had looked into his own counter. He died in a car accident at 19 — another interesting difference in the worlds. Long before he would have met Amy, gotten married, then separated, or lost her forever on Oct. 15.

  Sullivan couldn’t look her up now. Not when they had the alien threat to deal with. Bishop had already come over, infected a few people they knew of. God only knew how many more there were, ticking bombs waiting to detonate, or … get triggered.

  Sullivan had to think, help keep this world from being destroyed like his. If they could locate the vials, or find and kill Bishop, then, and only then, would he look for this world’s Amy.

  He wondered if she was happy, and had to fight the urge to stray down t
he path of what-ifs and could-have-beens.

  He took a fry from the basket. Too good for ketchup. Not so, salt and pepper.

  Sullivan looked around the bar, watching the island locals, laid back, mostly well-to-do, genuinely nice to one another. Sullivan hadn’t felt so comfortable in forever.

  Yeah, I’m definitely living here.

  Sullivan was about to call the night perfect when he saw the last person in the world he expected, or wanted: Alex Wan.

  What the hell?

  Sullivan buried his face in the menu, hoping to avoid eye contact, and that Alex would be led to the other side of the restaurant where they wouldn’t run into one another. No such luck.

  Wan bypassed the hostess and headed straight to Sullivan as if he was looking for him.

  “Hello, Mr. Sullivan,” Wan said, “Mind if I sit with you?”

  Jesus. What am I going to say? No?

  “Sure,” Sullivan said, “go ahead.”

  The waitress came by, suffered through Wan’s painful small talk, as Sullivan started chewing through his food as fast as he could, eager for an excuse to leave. Wan kept him talking, ordered two rounds of drinks, and nailed Sullivan to his chair.

  After Sullivan finished his final beer, Wan stared through the window in a rare and sudden silence.

  Good, maybe he’s as bored as I am.

  Sullivan was waiting for the waitress to look over so he could get the check and leave, but she was busy hustling drinks and food to a table of 20.

  “Be right back. If she comes back, can you ask for the check?” Sullivan said, excusing himself to the restroom as he pushed his chair out.

  He stood, surprised to find himself tipsy. It had been a long time since he’d had anything to drink, but was still surprised to be feeling drunk on just three beers.

  As Sullivan stood, he slipped. Wan reached out to grab him and hold him up.