The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (17 page)

I

t was risky
to be out in public, but Daniel couldn’t make himself care. Too many hours in the car, in shitty hotel rooms, in his own head. He needed space and a view and a place to think. So he’d parked the BMW at the north end of Fuller, put on his ridiculous shades, and started up Runyon Canyon.

The drooping sun painted the sky a smudgy orange. A lot of people were hiking the path, dogs running orbits around them, but things thinned out when he veered off to the harder route, a stern uphill that was more dirt and sand than pavement. His quads and calves and lungs were burning in minutes. It felt good, the pain, and he made himself go hard, jogging where he could. Punishing himself. As though half an hour of exercise could make up for his behavior with Robert Cameron.

You’re not cruel. You don’t have to be.
But he remembered that cinder in his belly, the way it had flared up and made him snap. Remembered the fear in the actor’s eyes as Daniel tied him. Whether or not Cameron had believed it before, in that moment, he certainly thought that Daniel had killed his wife.
But I didn’t. I know I—
Yeah yeah.
He hit a hard stretch near the top, a narrow, steep incline that had him panting. Sweat soaked the armpits of his silk shirt. But the exercise drove out thought.
The top of the canyon came on almost as a surprise, a leveling off as he rejoined the main path. The sun was below the horizon now, though the sky was still bright. A woman in a sports bra jogged by. Two guys walking the other way paused in their conversation to watch her pass, then shook their heads at each other and grinned. Daniel felt a pang of envy at the exchange, the easy camaraderie of friends.
The trail paused at an overlook point with a tall bench and a stunning view of the L.A. Basin: Hollywood, Beverly Hills, Westwood in the distance. A million tiny Christmas lights shimmering, god knew how many people out there living their lives. Daniel mopped his forehead, walked to the edge. The hills spread out on either side, mansions with unimaginable price tags, architectural wonders with blue-green pools on broad concrete decks. For a moment he stared, breathing hard but moved by the beauty of it all.
What had happened in the actor’s trailer? Daniel honestly hadn’t realized that he had a temper like that. That there was something inside of him that could explode not just into violence, but into an enjoyment of it. When he moved in on the actor, he had been excited about the thought of hurting him, of messing up his perfect movie star looks.
Yes. But you also thought that your wife had betrayed you with him. That maybe he even had something to do with her murder. Your reaction could belong to anyone.
Daniel flexed his fingers, squeezed his right wrist with his left hand. It was sore as hell. Turned out punching someone hurt quite a lot.
And the things he was saying. That you weren’t good enough for her. What does he know about that?
It was like the tabloids. They painted one picture, a squalid, hateful image. But everything else he had seen of the life they had lived painted another.
Still. The guilt. That dream about his bloody hands, the faceless judges looming like towers. Was it possible that he and Laney had some sort of fight? He could have lost that same terrible temper with her.
And then, what? Chased her out of your house, borrowed an SUV, and ran her off the road? It’s fine to question. Crucial. But don’t stop
thinking
.
No, though he wasn’t proud of what he’d done to Robert, it didn’t erase the facts. Too many things didn’t fit. Like the diamond necklace. If Laney was going to run out on him, she wouldn’t have needed to empty the bank account. He was just a writer; she was a star. Their money would have come from her. A weird feeling, but what the hell. It wasn’t like he’d been eating bonbons on the couch. Wasn’t his fault that the industry valued actors more than writers.
But what the hell are you? A mediocre writer in a town thick with them. Not particularly talented, not particularly smart, not particularly brave. The top of the middle of the bell curve.
Robert Cameron’s words in his ears.
On second thought, decking the guy maybe wasn’t
that
much of a sin. Asshole. He’d claimed to be Laney’s best friend, but he’d been feeding her poison about her husband? Not the friendliest move in the playbook. Especially since he’d said, directly, that Laney had loved him. “Laney told me that your wedding was the day her life began.”
That was something. He was right to feel the certainty he did. Laney had loved him, and he had loved her, and he hadn’t had anything to do with her—
Holy shit.
Daniel froze, mouth hanging open. Then he turned and sprinted down the hill.
5

He didn’t dare drive down his block. If cops were watching, that’s where they’d be parked. Instead, Daniel left the BMW by the beach and walked back up. He made himself go slow, just a neighbor taking a stroll. When a gray security vehicle slowed, he gave them a nod and kept walking. The driver waved and moved on.

Life begins
. The password clue for his laptop. And Robert Cameron had said that Laney had referred to their wedding as the day life began.

Daniel knew, he
knew
, that the password was their wedding date. How many answers must be on that computer, hidden behind that simple code? A date he’d seen inked on the mat of a photograph of he and Laney standing in the water in Maine, her dress hiked up, both of them laughing.

Which was great. Except he couldn’t remember what the date had been.
Funny. Can’t even blame this one on the amnesia. You just can’t recall.

Yeah. Funny. Sometimes irony was so funny you wanted to shoot yourself in the head.
It took Daniel ten minutes to make it to the block that backed up to theirs. The house he picked looked unassuming from the street, the security fence almost festive with the Christmas lights strung on it. No way to tell if someone was looking out a window, but at least the street was quiet.
He took a deep breath, shook out his arm, and launched into a run. He put on as much speed as he could, leaping at the last second to plant a foot against the wall. His momentum carried him far enough that he could grab the top and pull his legs up and over before dropping to the grass beyond.
God
damn
, but that felt good.
The yard was broad and brightly lit, floodlights spilling up the undersides of trees. He stayed low and moved to the perimeter. One nice thing about conspicuous wealth, it made for enough space to be inconspicuous. No one with a house in Malibu wanted to acknowledge that anyone else lived there, and there was a thick tree line between this house and its nearest neighbor. Daniel kept to it. A dog barked from inside the house and his heart jumped, but he kept moving until he reached another fence, this one oriented more to privacy than to security.
Ten seconds later, he was in his backyard.
A gust of wind tugged at the avocado tree, the leaves whispering against one another. Broken branches were scattered on the grass where he’d tried his hand at flying. He smiled ruefully, then went to the back door. The third key on his ring unlocked it.
He started to fumble for the light switch, caught himself.
Idiot.
He took a moment to catch his breath and let his eyes adjust. Then he crept through the kitchen into the living room.
In the dark, the house was at once familiar and strange, a longlost friend whose face had been weathered and changed by time. He moved slowly, the faint light through the windows silvering everything. The frames on the mantel were black shapes, but he was pretty sure which one he wanted. He picked it up, walked to the front window, tilted it to catch the light.
There they were, frolicking in the surf, again, forever. The date was written in the bottom corner. May 23, 2003. Right. Good thing to remember.
Brilliant white light spilled in the window.
Daniel collapsed like he’d been shot.
That wasn’t the offhand bounce of headlights. It was a spotlight. Like the kind police had mounted on their cars.
No, no, no! Not now. Run, you have to run, if you hurry you can—

He took a deep breath. Exhaled slow. He had to think, not panic. On elbows and knees he army-crawled back from the window. The light wobbled and moved, sweeping like an accusing finger, white and sharp and unforgiving. It vanished from the window, spilled in the glass on either side of the front door. Paused, and then panned back to the window.

It’s a patrol car. Waters probably has them swinging by the house just in case. That’s all it is. If they were really coming for you, it wouldn’t be like this. It would be men with flashlights and guns coming in the front and the back.

It was one thing to think. Another to act on that. But he made himself hold steady, just lie on the ground, the wedding photo in his hand.
Ten heartbeats later, the light shut off. He heard the sound of a car engine revving.
Daniel let himself breathe.

5

Back on the streets, the hard part was walking slow. Running would attract attention, but running was what he desperately wanted to do. Partly for fear the police might return, but the greater portion by far was the certainty of answers.

It took a long, long time to make it back to the car.
The moment he was safe inside, he pulled the laptop from his bag. Waited, fingers tapping, while the thing loaded. When the welcome screen came up, he typed “052303.”

Incorrect Password.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
He stared. Thought. Then he typed “05232003” and pressed enter. The loading screen vanished. There was a rising sound and a string of piano notes from the computer speakers, and the desktop appeared. The wallpaper was a picture of a nun giving him the finger. There were program icons on the left side: Word, Final Draft, Outlook, iTunes, Firefox, Quicken, Steam, Mine Sweeper. The right side had folders: My Documents, Scripts, Photos, My Music, Video.

Daniel stared. Ran his finger along the touchpad like it was a holy artifact. When the mouse responded, he double-clicked Outlook. There was a pause, and then the e-mail program popped open, displaying dozens of folders in one pane, and his inbox—1128 items— in the other. Subject headers ranging from “Notes on Episode 97” to “All Natural Penis Enlargement!!” Names, names, names.

Including Laney’s. He opened one of her messages at random.

From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 10/29/08, 11:18 AM
Subject: Urgent News

Psst—they’re bringing in cupcakes for Kelly’s birthday! The good kind, with the sour cream frosting. Here’s the plan.

 

You get two, tell them one is for me. Then I’ll get two and say one is for you.

 

Meet you behind my trailer. I’ll be wearing a gray trench coat. The password is “yum.”

 

This message will self-destruct in 5, 4, 3 . . .

 

Daniel read the message again. Then he shut the laptop and threw the car into gear.

 

5

 

The girl at the counter took in her port wine stain, popped her gum, and assigned Belinda Nichols a computer.

For days Belinda had been looking for Daniel Hayes, tracking him through the bars he frequented, following friends and acquaintances. So far, nothing. It was time to try a different approach. She walked through the too-bright Internet café, found her system, logged on. Daniel had spent most of his life in front of a computer screen; maybe he still did. She started with Facebook, searched for his name, found his fan page—2,314 fans. The wall had posts from many of them:

Florian Maas Daniel
, I know you didn’t do it!
3 hours ago

Brandee Crisp
Where are you, Daniel? You can come hide at my house if you want. I’ll help you forget Laney.
8 hours ago

Kelly Hager
I’m so, so sorry for your loss. This too shall pass.
Sunday November 8th at 9:08pm

The “In a relationship with” link read Laney Thayer. For kicks, Belinda clicked on the name— 153,289 fans. Funny world. Laney’s wall had posts too:

Keith Henneman
Only the good die young. R.I.P., Laney
about 2 minutes ago

Steve Medallin
U were a ray of light 2 so many people. RIP, baby. Sorry to your husband.
about 5 minutes ago

Sara Varys
i think it sucks that so many of you joined only cause she died. i’ve been a fan since 6,000. Laney we miss U!
about an hour ago

Bob Egan
Such an ugly thing to happen to someone so beautiful. My condolences to your husband and family and friends.
2 hours ago

Kilburn Hall Umm
, hello? You all know that her husband killed her, right?
2 hours ago

Friendship requests over computers. Kids texting instead of passing notes. Digital persona that had more vitality, more animus, than the real people. Celebrities famous for being famous celebrities. Homepages for the murdered; fan groups that swelled after a tragedy; condolences from total strangers. All of it virtual, part of a floating domain no one could ever visit. Facebook For The Dead.
What a weird thing we’ve made of the world.

Belinda shook her head, went back to Daniel’s page, scrolled quickly. Nothing from him, no posts to fans or police, no status updates saying he was okay. She wasn’t surprised, but it had been worth a try.

Let’s get a little deeper.
She typed in the address for his Internet service provider. When she clicked on the portion that opened webmail access, it presented her with fields asking for e-mail address and password. The e-mail she had. The password . . .

What are passwords? Birthdays. The name of a wife or a pet. Things people never forget.
Hmm. She tried the obvious ones first: CandyGirls. His birthday. His wedding anniversary. On the last, it opened right up. Bennett was right. People really were predictable.
There were more than a thousand messages. Belinda started at the top.

5

He found a hotel off Sixth Avenue, in what used to be called Skid Row, down near the Greyhound station. A narrow storefront of chipped brick with dead neon declaring it
THE AMBASSADOR.
Daniel was fairly sure it wasn’t a favorite of the diplomatic corps; the lobby was parquet and piss, the counter was sealed behind an inch of Plexiglas. The clerk looked like she had rollers in her hair, but didn’t. Her eyes were locked on a twelve-inch television.