Cast Of Shadows

by Kevin Guilfoile

  The cops were doing something, at least, Davis thought. He tossed Bill’s statement back and fished for another one.

  Libby Carlisle. Libby he knew well. She and Anna Kat played together on the volleyball team. Libby had slept over here at the house on Stone dozens of times. He would hear them giggling late into the night, sometimes whispering into the phone with a network of conspirators who were spending the night in the homes of other girls.

  The nocturnal back-and-forth between AK and Libby could get loud (the intensity of teenagers’ conversations, like the intensity of an old Borg-McEnroe tennis match, increased with every volley), but Jackie usually slept through it with some soundproof combination of antidepressants and liquor. Lying in the dark, Davis wondered if a responsible father should knock on his daughter’s door and break it up. Order them to bed. He never did. Instead he would eavesdrop, and although the girls were too many rooms away for him to make out the content of any conversation, the happy notes of his daughter’s voice were informative enough.

  Libby’s statement was long, and Davis flipped the pages with his thumb, starting with the last one. Because he knew Libby, and because she no doubt held many of Anna Kat’s confidences, he felt as if reading it too closely might constitute a betrayal of sorts. But it was also Libby’s tightness with AK that gave the statement promise. If AK knew Sam Coyne, so did Libby.

  The first time through, he just missed it. Maybe he was looking specifically for the word “Coyne,” the big capital C and the single descender from the y, like a lowercase letter stretching its arms and legs. He turned the pages more deliberately the second time.

  Libby said, “AK and I went to the mall on Monday. She had a night home with her mom on Tuesday. Wednesday night we took the train downtown with Dennis and Sam and this friend of Dennis’s who goes to Madison.”

  That was it. The only mention in over a hundred pages of transcript. Could this Sam be Sam Coyne? It had to be. Were many parents naming their kids Samuel thirty-five years ago? He couldn’t remember. It had been his business, bringing little boys into the world, and yet he couldn’t remember how many of them had been named Sam. The detective interviewing Libby hadn’t even asked for their last names. Sam who? Jesus Christ, Libby had given them the name of the killer and the cop didn’t even have the sense to ask what his last name was. What kind of an investigation was this? A botched one, but he already knew that.

  Davis threw the rest of the bound statements back into the filing cabinet and went upstairs to AK’s old room. For years it had remained almost as Anna Kat left it, not for sentimental reasons but because Davis had no stomach for the day’s work it would take to pull everything out. Jackie would sit in here sometimes and mourn in her own way. When he married Joan, she turned it into a guest room. They never discussed it. She just did it herself and he didn’t object.

  Some of AK’s things were still here, though. On a bookshelf were four years of yearbooks, including the one that had been delivered to the house after she died. Every margin on every page was covered with anguished eulogies and melodramatic farewells from teenagers dealing with the death of one of their own for the first time. There were song lyrics, lots of song lyrics, and drawings of flowers, and even sketches of Anna Kat, some of them skillfully done.

  Laying it flat on the bed and kneeling beside it, Davis examined the senior class row by row. He found Sam Coyne easily: handsome, smug, wearing a novelty tie with a cartoon cat. He looked so much like Justin. Exactly like Justin, but with a crew cut. A shiver went through him, top to bottom. This was the last face to see his baby alive, and it was Justin’s face.

  Coyne was the only senior named Sam. There were three boys named Dennis in her class. Among the underclassmen he discovered four more Dennises and one other Sam. But he hadn’t thought about girls. Turning to the index now, he came across six Samanthas, three of them in the senior class. Libby could have been talking about a Samantha, and when he looked for their pictures, a couple of the girls looked familiar.

  Absently he started reading through the messages inscribed to her. They ranged from sentimental (“Parting is all we know of heaven / And all we need of hell”) to cruel (“Have a nice summer!”). How odd friendship is between teens, Davis thought. So intense. Every acquaintance is as close as a lover. Every minor slight an act of betrayal. The loss of a peer unthinkable.

  The last two pages, left blank by the printer, were black-and-blue with ballpoint ink, irregular blocks of words covering the spread like a quilt. Davis rotated the binding, reading messages from less concise members of the Northwood East senior class. One of them, a poem – or more likely, song lyrics – froze the book in his hands:

  They can’t hurt you now

  It doesn’t matter what they say

  You can still feel anger across the grave

  But it was fun anyway

  Sam

  He read it again. And a third time.

  A confession. Maybe.

  The handwriting was precise, but it was definitely a boy’s – no teenaged Samantha would print with such bold, angular confidence. The words were not written hastily, but deliberately copied. The margins were careful and even. The strokes almost carved into the page.

  You can still feel anger across the grave / But it was fun anyway. The words drilled into his heart and uncorked a gusher of rage. He was still trying to hurt her, still taking pleasure in her pain. Laughing. Taunting. Missing her only because he wasn’t done torturing her.

  I’ll bury you, Coyne, he thought, his fingers on the front cover’s raised letters – ANNA KAT MOORE. I was so long without a child, I forgot I was a father. I got comfortable. I lost sight of you. I forgot what you did to her. Forgot that I wasn’t supposed to let you have the last word.

  Davis thought, I’ll show you her anger.

  – 77 -

  “Do you even have your learner’s permit?” Shadow Barwick asked.

  “No.”

  “God.”

  “Relax,” Justin said into his headset. “It’s like playing a video game. In fact, we are playing a video game. Remember.”

  “ You might be playing,” Sally said. “This is real to me. I’m risking my life here.”

  “We’re not going to die.”

  “We’re chasing a serial killer!”

  “So you’re convinced he’s the killer now?”

  “I didn’t say that. You know what I mean.”

  The blue Camry belonged to Justin’s Shadow mother. Unlike his real-life mother, Shadow mom hadn’t upgraded to a Sable, and the digitized import showed its age in the frayed floor mats and worn steering wheel. Tonight, for the fourth time in a week, Justin snuck out with the car, picked up Sally, and parked across the street from the garage underneath Sam Coyne’s apartment building. In reality, of course, they were both sitting in their pajamas at home.

  “I’ve topped two hundred and fifty thousand points on Ultrathon Grand Prix,” he reassured her. “I’m a good driver.”

  “Maybe you’d be better off playing your little driving game tonight,” Sally said. “I don’t think he’s coming out.”

  “He has to sooner or later.”

  The last Wicker Man killing had been ten weeks ago. According to Justin’s theory (illustrated on his revised chart), there would be a killing either in the game or on the real streets of Chicago very soon as Coyne felt the need to release his aggression. For many reasons, they were both hoping it would be in the game. Sally in particular was hoping it would be tonight. She was tired.

  That’s not to say she didn’t enjoy her time with Justin. He was the only man in her life. He had read more books than many adults, and understood them better than she did. He could argue a point without being personal. He wasn’t an intellectual and could talk about movies and music and television, and also at length about Sally’s primary interest – life in Shadow World. If he weren’t so young, she’d no doubt be dating him by now. Given all the time they spent together, between the game and her dream
s, some version of Sally practically was.

  “Unless he doesn’t,” Barwick said. “Have to, I mean. At some point we need to give up on your theory, Justin. I don’t want to, but with all these late nights I’m having trouble staying awake at work. Both of me are.” The dashboard and computer clocks both said 12:30 a.m.

  “Well, I have to go to school, ” Justin said, as if this stakeout had been her idea. Sally was reminded that when she was fifteen, she had been certain high school was so much harder and more boring than work would ever be.

  “Wait.” She nudged him. “There!”

  The garage was technically underground, a dead end in the maze of arteries carved underneath downtown known collectively as “Lower Chicago.” At night, however, visibility was just as good as it was on the upper streets bearing the same names. A black BMW glistened in the fluorescent light as it nosed under the corrugated door and turned onto the street. Shadow Justin checked the license plate.

  “That’s him!” he said, and in a small window showing third-person point of view, Barwick watched her on-screen avatar lurch forward as Justin took the car out of park. From a dozen car lengths, they followed Coyne’s taillights up Shadow Wacker Drive to the surface, then West on Madison to the old meatpacking district. There weren’t slaughterhouses here anymore – only galleries and nightclubs and condos, with the odd restaurant-supply store on Lake Street, the neighborhood’s only secondhand memory of its past life. Barwick’s town home was a few blocks north and west, in fact.

  “I think I know where he’s going,” Sally said. “Stay on him just in case.”

  Coyne parked the Beamer on Aberdeen, and Justin stopped short and backed up to a space more than a block behind. Coyne stepped out of his car and the lights flashed when he locked it with the remote. “Crap!” Justin said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know how to parallel park.”

  In her bedroom, behind her computer, real Sally chuckled. “Take your time,” she said.

  “No! We’ll lose him!” Justin said. “You wait here and I’ll chase after him.”

  Shadow Sally reached out and held his arm before he could unbuckle his seat belt. “You’ll never get in.”

  “What do you mean? Where is he headed?”

  “The Jungle,” Barwick said.

  When it opened six months ago, the Jungle was celebrated with local headlines that were half mocking and half adoring: New Meat Market Opens in Old Packing District was typical of the press. In fact, Sally, making a rare contribution to the features department, had written that article for both the real and Shadow Tribune s. The nightclub took its name from Upton Sinclair’s book that exposed the once-unspeakable practices of Chicago slaughterhouses. The modern-day incarnation of the Jungle, however, was nothing but high-tech glamour. With three stories, six dance floors, more than a hundred yards of bar if you put all nine of them together and laid them end to end, the Jungle was the hottest dance spot, pickup joint, and celebrity hangout in Chicago, real or otherwise.

  “I can pass for twenty-one,” Justin protested. “In the game, anyway.”

  “That’s not the problem,” Sally said.

  “What?”

  “You look like you’re dressed for softball,” she said, fingering his avatar’s T-shirt and baggy shorts. “We discussed how Coyne must be picking up women in bars at night, and these clubs have strict dress codes. Why do you think I’ve been breaking out the tight dresses for our stakeouts this week?” It was an opening for a come-on line, and when Justin didn’t take it, Sally was reminded once again he was just a kid. “You stay here. I’ll check it out.” She stepped carefully onto the sidewalk, balancing herself on a pair of high black heels. “Keep the engine running and keep your eye out for me.”

  “Wait,” Justin said. “I should go, or give it a try anyway. Like you said, it could be dangerous.”

  “Not because I’m a girl, I hope.”

  “Of course not. Because you’re a TTL. If something happens to me, I shrug it off and start the game over. I have nothing to lose.”

  Sally smiled. “Nothing’s going to happen to me. I’m just walking into a bar. I do it all the time. Did you happen to see what his avatar was wearing?”

  “It looked like a black overcoat,” Justin said. “But under that was a dark shirt with a vertical yellow stripe down the left side.”

  “Good,” Sally said.

  The entrance to the Jungle was up a short flight of concrete stairs. At the top of them a bouncer with a black ponytail and a square goatee protected a glass door with a purple curtain behind it. Having been judged lacking in some way, a small group of avatars stood on the sidewalk. They were mostly men, and had likely been rejected for wearing tennis shoes or committing some other fashion offense. In most cases, Sally guessed, they hadn’t left for another bar because the bouncer had nodded their girlfriends inside and the girls had gone dancing, abandoning the men in the virtual cold.

  Shadow Barwick paused to glance at herself in the window of a gallery that earned its reputation setting outrageous prices for artists no one had ever heard of, hoping to make them stars right out of the box. This tactic had worked once or twice, but now it looked to Sally like the gallery was going under. It shouldn’t matter to the landlord. This neighborhood – although still a bit gritty and industrial – was red-hot. Another gallery would take its place before anyone noticed. In the window’s reflection, Sally looked good, in a tight black dress with a red scarf and a small red purse. Although now in her mid-thirties – and even with Shadow World sucking up so many hours – she still made the gym three days a week and made certain her avatar was as fit as she was in real life, right down to her current weight in ounces. Earlier in the week, Sally had downloaded the latest update of the avatar builder and the difference in appearance was stunning. The skin tones and facial expressions were lifelike. The stitching in her clothes was twice as detailed. The animation in her straightened hair was so good she could differentiate between strands. Although it was a violation of the unwritten TTL code, she took advantage of the new installation and made some minor adjustments to her face – lengthening her nose, widening her eyes, slightly adjusting the shade of her brown skin – nothing too drastic, but she was both delighted with the way the new look made her feel and ashamed of having done it. Such tinkering was counter to the True-to-Life ethic, but the new technology made it irresistible. The first night of the stakeout, Justin had commented, shyly, that she looked great, but she couldn’t tell if he was referring to the higher resolution of her avatar or to the minor surgery she’d done on her face. She promised herself she’d change it back, but was unconvinced she actually would.

  Threading herself between the castaways on the sidewalk, Sally climbed the concrete steps and the bouncer opened the door with a big grin. “You look fine, honey.” She wondered if this was the same doorman she had interviewed in real life at the opening, and if he recognized her. Either possibility was a stretch.

  Inside, patrons were packed into the most inconvenient places. The coat check was as difficult to get to as any of the bars. Fortunately, Sally’s avatar wasn’t thirsty and she’d left her coat in Justin’s car.

  Not thirty seconds inside, a tall Asian man asked her to dance. She couldn’t even see the dance floor and the music was so loud she could barely understand the request in her headset. She turned him down and continued to push her way deeper into the Jungle.

  The center of the club boasted a fifty-foot ceiling and an enormous skylight that would have revealed a brilliant display of stars if the sky were clear and the city not so lousy with light pollution, a detail Shadow World’s programmers had written into the Chicago code. When there were no clouds, you could make out a handful of the brightest planets and stars, but mostly you’d see the blinking lights of airplanes in holding patterns over O’Hare and Midway. Last month, during a meteor shower, the club – the real Jungle – had a party to celebrate. There had been little to see through the skylight but
patrons partied on, soon forgetting the promotion that had brought them there in the first place.

  Two more offers to dance followed in quick succession, along with a third suggestion that prompted Barwick to push away the propositioner with the heel of her palm. Disgusting. When yet another avatar asked if she wanted to join him for the next song – what were they, taking numbers? – she finally said yes. From the dance floor she could move around better and also get a decent look at all sides of the club.

  Out in the middle of the room, under the big skylight, Sally loosened up. She felt self-conscious when she danced in real life, but in Shadow World she could relax. Let the music lead her. The motion of her fingers across the keyboard was a dance of its own, and the easy manner with which her avatar responded was much more satisfying than any real-life two-step. This was why she felt more alive in the game than she did in real life. This feeling of confidence and control was something she had tried to describe to her family but never could. They would just shrug and laugh and say they’d never understand this True-to-Life obsession of hers.

  Tonight, though, even more than other nights she’d spent clubbing in Shadow World, Sally really had it going on. The motions of her new avatar were so fluid. So natural. Changing to third-person in the point-of-view window she could watch herself as others saw her, and what others were seeing was a sexy, sexy display. The way her hips rolled, the way her hair fell in front of her eyes, the fluid way her arms turned above her head as if she were undersea.

  In the main panel of the screen, she saw her dance partner – dressed up, trying too hard, a good but not great dancer, handsome face, shaved head, broad shoulders under a ribbed turtleneck. He had a grin on his face and an empty, fixed stare that Sally recognized from thousands of hours in the game as lust.

  Of course.

  That was why she was getting all the attention. Most of these guys were in here for online sex, and she represented the newest technology. They were after some high-resolution in-and-out with her. She was both flattered and nauseated by the thought. Scanning the area around her, she found a lot of eyes on her body, men and women, some horny and some just curious. She counted a few others who had obviously upgraded, maybe one in twenty players at this point. TyroSoft predicted that in one month the penetration would be close to ninety percent.