The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (3 page)

It was Emily.
The middle sister, brunette with a cream complexion and bright eyes, the kind of girl who appeared in ads for skin cream, the kind you could imagine what she smelled like just from watching her smile.
The episode followed her tempestuous relationship with Jake, a producer who had been dating Emily’s older sister while pining for Emily. Tara, the blond one, was predictably unhappy about being dumped, and by the end of the episode she had managed not only to split Emily and Jake up, but also to steal a role from Emily by seducing the director. The part was a guest appearance on a show Jake produced, leaving Emily sure that he’d been toying with her all along.
In the last minutes, she walked away from Jake. When she reached the safety of her powder-blue VW bug, Emily closed the door and gripped the steering wheel. There were no wild histrionics, just a nicely underplayed swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, and then she started the car and pulled away, her taillights blending with those of a hundred other aspiring starlets. The credits sprinted past as an announcer teased the upcoming program, something about plastic surgeons. Daniel turned off the TV.
What the hell was that? What did it mean?
Who was Emily Sweet?
She’s a make-believe character, idiot. What it means is that you’re petrified, and right now you’ll cling to anything that distracts you from the facts of your life.
Daniel stood, went to the bathroom. Hung the towel on the rack and stepped into his clothing. He needed to eat anyway. No harm making another stop.

He found the drugstore a bit down US-1. The fluorescent lighting was harsh after the deep dark of a Maine evening, but the middleaged woman behind the counter smiled as she sold him the magazine.

“Anywhere to grab a bite around here?”
“Kingfisher’s does a decent burger.”
“Perfect.” He got directions and hopped back in the car. Kingfisher’s turned out to be a diner in a converted house five miles away. Conversation didn’t quite stop when he walked in, but he could feel the eyes on him. He spotted an empty booth by the window, slid onto the Naugahyde, pulled a menu from behind the ketchup. Glenn Frey sang from cheap speakers, advising Daniel to take it easy, not to let the sound of his own wheels drive him crazy.

“What’ll you have?”
“Let me get a giant Coke and two double burgers, please.” “How do you want ’em?”
“Ummm . . .”
Good question.
“One rare, one well done.” “Shine a flashlight on one, scorch the other. Got it.” She jotted

on the tab. “Anything else?”
“Just a question. Where am I, exactly?”
She gave him a bemused expression. “Outside Cherryfield.” The atlas was taped and torn and out of date, but he didn’t imagine Maine had changed that much. It took him a couple of minutes to find Cherryfield; it was written in the tiniest font on the map. He wasn’t just in Maine, he was practically in Canada. No wonder the beach had been abandoned.

The waitress plunked down a plastic tumbler of soda. The syrupy sweetness tasted wonderful. Daniel pulled out his drugstore purchase, the current issue of
TV Guide
. There it was.
Candy Girls
, FX Networks, running at 6
_P.M.
eastern. He turned to the next day—same thing. Syndicated, then. A quick scan showed him that it ran five days a week. He flipped back to today—November 4, apparently—and read the description. “Emily (Laney Thayer) and Jake (Robert Cameron) get closer, but Tara (Janine Wilson) has other plans.”

“Here you go, hon.” The waitress set down the dinner plates. The smell hit, rich and fatty, and his stomach didn’t so much growl as roar. He bit into a burger. Amazing. His first meal. Daniel attacked it, throwing it down like he was filling a hole.

A girl of maybe eight stood at the end of the table. Her hair was swept into a ponytail and secured by a pink fuzzy thing, and she wore a T-shirt with a picture of a girl only a little older than her singing into a microphone.

He smiled at her. “What do you mean? I only have one.” “No, you have two.” She pointed to them. “One, t—” Before she could finish, he crammed the rest of the burger in

She laughed and clapped her hands to her mouth. Daniel chewed, swallowed, chewed, swallowed. He coughed and wiped his mouth.
“You’re silly,” the girl said.
“Thank you.” He gestured at her. “I like your shirt. Who’s that?”
“That’s Hannah Montana! She’s a singer except when she’s a girl. She’s really famous, and everybody loves her, but nobody knows that she’s also Miley Stewart. But here she’s Hannah Montana. I’m going to be a famous singer someday and do concerts and sing for the president and stuff.”
“Wow. I’m lucky I met you now.”
The girl nodded sagely. “That’s true. I’ll be really busy when I’m famous. And I’ll live in a big house with a pool and the ocean. And lots of famous people will come visit, and they’ll all like me, because I’ll be famous too.”
“Sounds pretty great,” Daniel said. He reached for his soda, took a swig.
“Nadine!” The woman appeared out of nowhere. She ignored Daniel as she snatched the little girl’s wrist. “What did I tell you? Get back over there.”
“We were just talking,” Daniel said. “It’s okay.”
The woman gave him a mind-your-own-business glare, then tugged the little girl toward a booth at the other end of the restaurant. “I told you to sit still. Now you sit
still
, young lady.”
Daniel shook his head. Why even
have
kids if what you wanted was a doll that sat still? It had been good to talk—well, listen—to Nadine. It had felt normal. No questions about who he was or what anything meant. Kids that young were so sure of everything. She was going to be a famous singer, and that was that.
He picked up his other burger. He could feel eyes on him, and made a point of eating slowly and neatly. By the time he’d reduced his dinner to crumbs and grease, conversation had returned to normal. When he leaned back, his belly strained the snap of the jeans, and a pleasant sort of exhaustion had come over him. For the first time, he felt almost okay. He had started the day fighting for his life, and since then he had found clothing, shelter, food. He knew where he was, and had a name that might well be his.
That’s the criteria for okay?
Maybe
knowing your name?
He had to grip the edge of the table, afraid he might fall out of the booth.

He was in a concrete canyon. Water trickled. The bleeding sun stained everything crimson. Ahead there was a tunnel, tall and broad. The mouth of it was perfect black shadow, but he knew that something waited in that darkness. Waited and watched.

Something terrible.
“Hurry.”
The voice came from behind. He spun.
Emily Sweet, pale skin and dark hair spilling in a tangle. Wearing the same outfit as on the show, a T-shirt that hugged her body and flaring jeans. She sat on the concrete, long legs crossed girlishly beneath her. Her feet were bare, the nails painted the color of the dying sun.
She smiled up at him. “Hurry.”
“What?”
“You have to hurry.”
“Why?”
“They’re coming for you,” she said.
“Who—” But before he could finish, there was a loud bang and

suddenly he was looking at her through the wrong end of a telescope, the barren concrete and the haunted tunnel and Emily all zooming into the distance. Daniel jerked awake. The pounding came again. Someone knocking on the door.

They’re coming for you.
He struggled against the sheets, adrenaline pounding through his body. “Who is it?”
“Manager.”
“What do you want?”
“Money for today. Or you gotta clear out.”
“Yeah, ah.” Daniel forced an exhale. It was just a dream. His waking mind had heard the banging, integrated it, that was all. Guardian angels weren’t on shows called
Candy Girls.
“One second.”
He pulled on his jeans and stained undershirt, then opened the door. The manager looked him up and down, took in the funky hair and the pillow marks. “You okay?”
“I just woke up.”
“After one.” The tone part contempt, part befuddlement.
“Yeah.” Daniel rubbed at his eyes. “Is it?” He glanced around the room, saw the deposit envelope. “Forty, right?”
The man reached for the twenties, and Daniel noticed splotches of color under his nails, ocher and chartreuse and evergreen. “Hey, you’re the husband. The painter.”
“Ayup,” he said in the same tone of voice he might have used to admit to stealing from a church donation basket.
“I really like your work. That canvas in the office, and this one.” He gestured at the lonely promontory, the salt spray, the shattered heavens. “They’re terrific.”
The manager’s ears flushed red. He nodded, said nothing.
One thing you had to give Maine people, Daniel thought, no one could accuse them of babbling. “You ever have a show?”
“On television?”
“No, I mean an art show. In a gallery.”
“I.” He didn’t seem to know what to say. “No.”
“You should. You could probably sell these. They’re so vivid, you know? Evocative. They’re lonely and sad, but in a distinctive way.” He realized he was rambling, but it felt good to talk to someone, anyone. “I bet you’d be surprised.”
The guy looked away, muttered something that might have been a thanks. Then he said, “Checkout is noon,” and walked quickly away.
Daniel watched him go, this lumbering, quiet man. Living in the sticks, painting cries of desolation he never intended to sell. So shy that a word of praise made him squirm. In bed he and his wife must be about as much fun as a tax audit.
But at least he knows who he is.
In the bathroom Daniel splashed water on his face, dunked his head under the faucet. “So,” he said to his reflection, “we’re a couple of good-looking dudes. What’s our plan?”
The mirror offered no suggestions.
Well, okay then. Two options came to mind. He could go to the police and ask for help. Or he could get back in his car and drive to Los Angeles. The police were probably the safest route. But was it that simple?
Daniel grabbed his keys, went to the parking lot. The gun was where he’d left it. He stared for a moment. Glanced around. No one seemed to be watching, but still.
There was a crumpled Wendy’s bag on the floor, and he shook it out, dumping a hamburger wrapper and a napkin. Hesitantly, he took the pistol, slid it into the bag, then locked the car and returned to his room.
He turned on the lamp on the bedside table to get a look at the gun. A Glock 17 with the trademark triple-action trigger safety system, no hammer, drop-safe. Tenifer-hardened for maximum scratch and corrosion resistance. He thumbed the magazine release, saw that it was fully loaded with 9mm rounds.
Apparently, I’m comfortable with guns.
That didn’t mean anything, really. Lots of people were. Still, there was something ominous in the situation. Waking with, what, amnesia, some sort of fugue? And in the glove box of his expensive car, a high-quality semiautomatic pistol.
He raised the Glock to his nose, sniffed it. It smelled of carbon.
It’s been fired. Fired and not cleaned since.
How long ago? No way to say. It might have been nothing, just a trip to the range. Or it might have been used in an interstate crime spree. What if he had the gun because he was in danger? Or because he was dangerous?
I don’t
feel
dangerous.
But the police might disagree. Until he knew what was going on, who he’d been and what he’d done, talking to them was a huge risk.
Which left Los Angeles. There had to be answers waiting there. And yet the thought of returning to California prompted a swell of guilt and shame and horror. He couldn’t say why, but the feeling was unshakable. Like waking up with a hangover, dead certain that he’d made an ass of himself during his blackout hours. For some reason, home scared the hell out of him.
So what, you want to just hide?

He set the Glock on the nightstand, thought better of it, pulled out the drawer, and set it atop the Gideon bible. Rubbed at his eyes.
Here’s the plan. You already paid for the room. Stay. Get some rest. Stress and exhaustion have to be part of the problem. So take it easy today.
Tomorrow, act like a man
.

Everyone said his father had been a lovable guy, quick with a joke, always up for another round of Dewar’s, a hell of a baseball player. Of course, Dad had vanished right around the time Chris was starting tee ball, so his own memories were faded photographs. The two of them sitting on the end of a dock, the waves spitting white and green around the pilings. The smell of tobacco and Aqua Velva. That good almost-sick feeling in his belly when Dad tossed him high.

There hadn’t been any fights, no screaming or beatings. Dad had just ruffled his hair, boarded a fishing boat, and never come home. No accident, no storm, no letter, just on at Port Clyde and off somewhere else.

So Mom had taken a second job, and Chris had started watching a lot of television. The old shows that ran in syndication after school,
Miami Vice
,
21 Jump Street
, even
CHiPs
. After high school, he’d gone to the Maine Criminal Justice Academy, watching cop shows all the while. He loved
The Shield
, he loved
The Wire
, he even watched
CSI
, piece of shit that was. Chris was ready to be a world-weary lawman with a weapon on his hip. He wanted to catch bad guys. He wanted to work big cases, stare darkness in the face and not blink.

Problem was, he lived in Washington County, Maine. They didn’t make cop shows about places like Washington County. Not unless you counted
Andy Griffith
.

He steered the cruiser with one hand, popped the last of his bologna sandwich in his mouth with the other, then brushed the crumbs off his uniform. Cherryfield Hardware slid past, and the owner stopped locking up long enough to raise a hand at him. Chris threw back a halfhearted salute.

He had feelers out all over the country, but it was your classic catch-22. Without having worked a high crime area, he didn’t have the qualifications to work a high crime area. Which left him where?