by Max Barry
“Ah, yes,” Monohan said, which was when Felicity realized that this conversation was being staged for her benefit. “Poor kid was real banged up.”
“Clay is the danger,” Felicity said. “Not Hugo.”
Primrose said, “Are you waiving your rights?”
“No. I want an attorney from the New York Daily News. You can get the number from my colleague, Levi Waskiewicz, or my boss, Brandon Aberman.”
Primrose stared at her with open dislike. They’d known she was a reporter, she assumed. But a reporter calling for a newspaper’s attorney was worse. Worse for them. They left without speaking.
* * *
—
The young cop returned her to her cell. Hours later, he came back and said she was free to go. She didn’t know whether to believe this until he took her to a room where a thin-haired man in a blue suit smiled and extended his hand. “Felicity Staples? I’m Seb Leiman. Your boss called me.”
“You’re from the News?”
“I’m from Andrews and Ackerman. We do work for the Tribune papers. You’re free to go, but the police would prefer that you remain in the greater Los Angeles area for the next forty-eight hours. I told them that wouldn’t be a problem. Will that be a problem?”
She shook her head. “Can I get my phone?”
Seb looked at the young cop, and, a few minutes later, she had her phone. The screen was full of messages: Levi, Brandon, Gavin.
“So,” Seb said, “shall we go somewhere and talk this through? My instructions were to get you released, but my sense is that the LAPD may take you back into custody in the near future, so we should take this opportunity to prepare.”
“I need to go back to my hotel.”
“That’s up to you. Can I get you a cab?”
She had lost her gun. She didn’t know what she could do without it. But she had her freedom. It might be fleeting, but she had another chance after all. “Yes, please.”
“Where to?”
There were a lot of places Maddie might be. But one was most likely. “The Waldorf Astoria,” she said.
17
The police cordoned off the terrace with yellow-and-black tape. There were overturned chairs and tables and scattered plates and cutlery, which Maddie felt a compulsion to straighten. But that would have disturbed the scene, and that was what this was now: a crime scene. They were all performers, locked into a script written by someone Maddie didn’t know, playing implicit roles: Witness. Investigator. Victim.
Maddie’s investigator was a woman with thin lips and heavy eye shadow, who identified herself as Officer Weiss. Weiss wanted to know what Maddie had seen and done, several times, from the beginning to the end. Maddie answered as best she could, feeling very much like she was playing a part, and not even an original one: Innocent Bystander #2 from some midweek TV show. Even her lines felt recycled. It happened so fast. I didn’t really see. I don’t know.
She did not tell Officer Weiss that Clay claimed to be from another world. If he was telling the truth, exposing his secret would put him in danger.
Her phone rang. Officer Weiss motioned for her to take it. “Are you all right?” Yvonne said, as soon as Maddie swiped. “My God. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” Maddie said, as if reciting a line.
“I can see you. I’m right here.” Maddie looked about until she spied Yvonne across the terrace, behind a strip of police tape. Yvonne wasn’t being interviewed; she was just a bystander. An extra. “When you’re done, I’ll take you back to your hotel, okay?”
“You don’t have to do that,” Maddie said, although maybe it was a good idea.
“I feel so bad. I see you’re with the police. I’ll wait right here until you’re done.”
“Thanks,” Maddie said.
“That was her,” Yvonne said suddenly. “The woman they arrested. That’s the journalist who’s been stalking you. Felicity Staples.”
She felt startled. “Are you sure?”
“Yes! I already told the police. She was trying to track you down all day.”
She didn’t know what to make of that. “I’ll call you when I’m done,” she said, because Officer Weiss was waiting. She put down the phone. But almost immediately, it rang again: Neil, her agent, this time, presumably phoned by Yvonne. Or he might have seen the shooting on the news. Maybe Maddie’s parents had, too, and would be phoning her next. She hoped not, because she didn’t want to frighten them.
“Do you need to get that?” said Officer Weiss.
Maddie shook her head. “It’s okay.”
“The initial shots,” said Officer Weiss. “You didn’t see where they came from?”
She shook her head.
“But you did see the woman with a gun. A woman who identified herself to you as Felicity Staples.”
“Yes.” They had been through this. “I saw her walking toward our table. Then there were shots. Then people were running, and Felicity Staples was on the floor, and I saw her take a gun from her bag.”
“Could she have taken out the gun earlier, but you didn’t notice?”
She shook her head. “I was looking right at her.”
“The man in the restroom,” Officer Weiss said. “Did you see him at any point prior?”
“No. I’d never seen him before.”
Officer Weiss nodded, writing in her notepad.
“Who are they?” Maddie asked. “The man and Felicity Staples? Why were they here?”
“We’ll know more tomorrow,” Officer Weiss said, delivering her own line. Then, more genuinely: “He’s an escaped felon. Best guess is he’s the shooter.”
“What about Clay?”
“He’s suffered some injuries, but I think he’ll be all right.”
“Why did the man attack him?”
Weiss hesitated. “Your friend tried to wrestle the gun from him. That’s his statement.” She eyed Maddie. “Is that what you saw?”
“I didn’t go into the restroom until the end.”
Weiss nodded.
“Is Clay . . .” She trailed off.
Officer Weiss raised her eyebrows. “Is Clay what?”
You have to listen to me.
He’s a murderer. He’s killed before.
“Wanted,” Maddie said. “With a police record or something.”
Officer Weiss studied her. “Do you want me to check?”
“Yes, please,” she said.
Weiss nodded. Officer Weiss was understanding. Weiss was looking out for her because she was Innocent Bystander #2. “Wait here.”
She waited. Ten feet away, a man in a blue suit scraped debris into a plastic bag. The night had grown cold.
“No record,” Weiss said, returning. “He’s a model citizen. Does that answer your question?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“All right,” said Officer Weiss. “Let’s get you home.”
* * *
—
So she didn’t need a ride from Yvonne: Officer Weiss drove her back to the Waldorf Astoria. In the lobby, she handed Maddie a card and said to call if she had any questions, or if anything else came to mind that she thought the police should know. Otherwise, Maddie was to expect a follow-up in the morning.
She rode the elevator to the eleventh floor. She entered her room and set her heavy bag on the bathroom counter. In the mirror, her reflection appeared calm. A little strained around the eyes. Her hair needed brushing. On balance, though, there wasn’t much to suggest she’d just been involved in a shooting, after sharing a table with a man who claimed to be able to walk between worlds. Who had been searching for her because, in a place she’d never even been, he’d fallen in love.
Such a strange idea: that there were more of her, somewhere she couldn’t see. A dozen Maddies, playing different parts, as if in a play
with many stages.
Her first thought had been that Clay was mentally ill. He had built a fantasy world in his head and dropped her into it.
You have to listen to me. If I don’t get him, you’re going to die. He’ll track you down and kill you.
He’s a murderer. He’s killed before.
But if Clay was delusional, so was the blond woman. And the other man, who’d charged into the restroom. All three must share the same delusion, because the woman had taken a walnut cracker and broken that gray stone, the thing Clay called his token, like it meant something. They behaved like characters in the same scene, operating from the same premise.
What if it were true?
They want to keep the guy and the girl apart, Clay had said. The bad guys.
The man was an escaped felon. The woman, Felicity Staples, had been stalking Maddie around town. Clay had no police record. All this fit with the idea that he was being pursued by bad guys.
He will kill you, the woman had said. The police won’t stop him.
“Things a bad guy would say,” Maddie told the mirror. “To keep the guy and the girl apart.”
Her reflection looked anxious. She undressed and stepped into the shower. Water coursed down her face. Steam rose.
* * *
—
She did her hair and her makeup, then sat on the bed in her hotel robe and zapped through TV channels. Five people injured, according to the news. No deaths. And surprisingly brief coverage; just a few minutes and then on to a baseball story. As if it happened every day.
She considered room service. She was hungry and the hotel food was amazing. But she resisted, because she didn’t think this night was over, and if anything else was going to happen, it would happen soon.
An hour passed. Then came a knock at the door. Not a phone call, a buzz from reception. A knock. She moved to the door and set her eye to the peephole.
In the hallway, distorted by the lens, stood Clay. A hoodie was pulled tight around his face, but she could still see that his left eye was swollen and half shut. His right cheek was bruised purple. His lips were patchy with dried black blood.
“Madison, I know you’re there. I can see your shadow.”
She said nothing.
“Please open the door. We need to talk. Please.” His voice broke. “I don’t care what else happens. But I have to see you. I can’t bear to think you might hate me.”
She glanced back at her hotel phone. She could call security and have them up here lickety-split. This was something she would do if she believed what the woman had said, that Clay was dangerous. She put her eye to the peephole.
Through the lens, his head was huge. “Stand back so I can see you.” He obeyed. “Turn around. I need to know you’re not carrying anything.”
He pushed back the hoodie and lifted the shirt at his waist, revealing pale flesh. He turned in a circle. No weapon that she could see.
“Madison, I hate that you’re afraid of me.” When she didn’t respond, he shuffled closer, as if trying to see her through the peephole. “Those people . . . They want to kill me, because I took their token. They lie. They always get between us.” He glanced over his shoulder, as if they might be coming for him down the hallway. “Please let me in.”
She unlocked and swung open the door. His face lit up. He took a step like he might grab her hands or hug her or something, which she wasn’t quite ready for, so she stepped back. “We can talk. But you have to keep your distance.”
He grimaced. “I understand. That’s totally reasonable.”
She led him into the room. The door eased closed behind them.
“This is nice,” he said, looking around. “Did Neil arrange it? He was your agent in another place, too. You were in a TV show there, but it wasn’t very good.”
She pointed at the bed. “Sit.”
Clay lowered himself onto the end of the mattress. A smile kept surfacing and disappearing on his lips, like he couldn’t suppress it.
“Clay, I’m scared and confused,” she said. “I need you to be totally honest with me.”
He sobered instantly. “Of course.”
“If you lie to me, you’ll never see me again.”
His eyes widened fractionally. His face was very expressive, despite the injuries. He nodded. “That’s fair. I always want to tell you the truth, Madison. The only reason I hold back sometimes is I’m scared I’ll lose you.”
There was a chair at the desk, which she turned around so she could sit and face him across six feet of carpet. “Is it true?”
“Is what true?”
“All of it. Everything you told me. Your movie.”
He nodded emphatically. “Yes. That’s how it really happened.”
“The stone you showed me. It lets you . . .”
“Move to other worlds. Yes. I’ve done it dozens of times.”
“But she broke it. The woman at the mall.”
“That doesn’t matter. That’s the point, Madison. I don’t need it anymore, because I found you. If you can just not be mad at me, everything is fine. I don’t want to move. I want to stay here with you. You’re the reason for everything.”
His body was taut angles of anxiety. He hadn’t shifted his eyes from her for a moment, and it was like a spotlight, she thought suddenly. She’d been loved before, but not like this.
“Madison, I just need to know. Do I have a chance?” He dropped his head, breaking eye contact at last. “I know I don’t deserve to ask.”
She felt cruel, keeping him at bay. But she needed more information. “Who were they?”
A spasm of anger crossed his face. “Hugo. Felicity.”
“They’re the ones who have been chasing you?”
“Yes.”
“For the token?”
“Yes.”
“Is that all they wanted?”
He glanced up. His eyes danced to the right. A lie was coming. “Yes.”
She waited, giving him a chance to rectify this, but he let it pass. She stood. “I want you to leave.”
He gaped, his poor ruined lips hanging. “What? Why?”
“If they want the token, why did she destroy it?”
Panic spread across his face. “No! Wait! I’m sorry! I’m sorry, Madison! I’ll tell you. There’s more. Please, give me a chance to tell you.”
“You had a chance.”
“I know,” he said, and moaned. “I want to, Madison. I’m just so scared of losing you.” He swallowed. “I did some bad things. In other places. I was all alone and I didn’t know what I was doing. And that’s no excuse. I know. But I was so messed up. I’d lost everything.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “They didn’t just want the token back. They wanted me to stop moving. But I had to, Madison. So I could find you.” He put his head in his hands. “I can’t look at you.”
She decided to be direct. “She told me something about you.”
Clay’s head jerked up. His mouth hung open in an almost comical depiction of shock.
“In the dining terrace,” Maddie said. “The woman.”
He gave a cry of anguish, startling her. He rose from the bed, bunched his hands into fists, and pressed them against his forehead.
“Sit,” Maddie said, alarmed.
“They always ruin it!” Abruptly, he moved and punched the drywall. When he withdrew, a hole gaped. Maddie rose half out of her chair, but his shoulders slumped and he sank back to the bed. “It’s over.”
The spotlight was gone. It had been overwhelming and uncomfortable, but its absence felt like the moment of leaving a stage, or when the director called “Cut,” reducing her to ordinariness in a moment. She almost wanted to move to him, raise his chin, and make him look at her again, to get it back. “Clay, I don’t know that woman. I’ve never seen her before. I want to hear it from yo
u.”
He shook his head, still not looking at her.
“Do you trust me? Then trust me with the truth.”
“I can’t.” His voice was thick with grief.
“Why not?”
He balled his hands into fists and beat them against his forehead. It was so fierce that she cried out for him to stop. He writhed and slid from the bed to the floor. “I’d rather die. I mean it. I’ll kill myself. I’d rather be dead than have to see your face when you hate me.”
She stared at him, frozen. Something flickered in his eyes, a kind of calculation, as if another person was inside him, behind all the histrionics, watching this scene play out from a distance. But then he blinked, and that person was gone.
“Good-bye, Madison,” he said. “I won’t bother you again.”
Before he could stand, she dropped from her chair. She crawled toward him across the carpet on her hands and knees. His eyes widened. When he was close enough to touch, she said, “Don’t go.”
A soup of emotion washed across his face. The spotlight was obscured, and she reached out and gently pushed back a lock of his hair from his face, until all she could see in his eyes was her own reflection.
“I understand,” she said, “what it’s like to do things, when it’s not really you.”
He began to cry. He looked away. “You don’t. You can’t.”
She turned his face back. “You were in pain. You were lost and confused.”
He nodded.
“Did they hurt you?” she asked. “The people you . . .”
Clay grimaced. “Yes. But it wasn’t their fault.”
“You were in pain and you lashed out.”
His shoulders shook. His chest heaved. “I shouldn’t have. I’m so sorry for what I did, Madison. I’m truly so sorry.”
She thought she could see it now. The woman at the dining terrace hadn’t told her the full story because Maddie wouldn’t have believed her. Clay hadn’t told her because he feared her reaction. But she was, in a way, perfectly equipped to understand. How many times had Maddie watched herself on a screen and been disgusted with what she saw? How long had she practiced a line or an expression in the mirror, doing it over and over, infuriated at her failure to get it right—to be right? She’d spent her whole life shedding versions of herself that weren’t good enough. That were wrong.