“Yeah, but they call him the Photographer,” Chaz said. “He knows about Snapshots and how to avoid them, right? That’s what Maria said. We can’t do anything to help.”
“Like we’re not doing anything now?”
“That’s different. They don’t realize you could actually do something—they think we’re both useless, but you, you’re stealth competent, Davis.”
Davis grunted. “I don’t buy it, Chaz. We did a Snapshot last week to find that kid working with the Juarez. Why not have us just pop over to that old apartment building? They’d have known about it IRL by then. We could peek in and see if any of the drowning people were still alive on that day—and that would have let us get some intel. But no, instead the precinct just pretends we can’t do anything.”
“Too deep for me,” Chaz said. He pointed out the window. “I can tell you though, this stakeout feels wrong. What if he doesn’t go in this way? What if he’s been scared off, and doesn’t come here at all? Or what if he returned early today, before we got back?”
“One of us should go in there, huh?” Davis said, feeling nervous.
“Yeah.” Chaz glanced at him. “Don’t worry. I’ll do it.”
“We should flip for it or something.”
“Nah. I’m good.” He patted Davis on the shoulder. “I’ll text you once I get into position to watch the gym. I’ll listen a little bit, then peek in and make sure he’s not already in there. You text me if you see him approach. Okay?”
Davis nodded, taking a deep, relieved breath. Chaz walked to the door, but Davis called after him.
“Chaz?”
“Yeah, partner?”
“I couldn’t pull the trigger.”
Chaz frowned from the doorway. “What—”
“You wanted to know why I’m in here,” Davis said, looking back out the window. “Years ago, when I was a real cop, we were in a shootout. Real bad guys, hostages, the terrible kind of stuff that ends up on the news. They sent in everyone. And I . . .”
“Couldn’t shoot?”
“Had one right in my sights. And I blew it. You hear about Perez?”
“Yeah.”
“The guy I couldn’t shoot, he killed her. They found me trembling in the hallway, gun on the floor in front of me.” He squeezed his eyes closed. “I thought . . . well, you should know.”
“I already did.”
“But—”
“Gutierrez told me,” Chaz said. “Soon after I got assigned to you. I figured it was better if you told me yourself, you know? If I gave you a chance to bare your soul. Then we could be real partners.”
Davis blinked, staring at the grinning taller man. Here I think we’re sharing something, Davis thought, and then you remind me how good you are at lying.
“I’ll text you,” Chaz said, then left.
Davis waited, watching carefully while Chaz slipped across the street and into the building. They had time before the Photographer was supposed to return, but still Davis had visions of the killer spotting Chaz and bolting before either of them could catch him.
Shortly after Chaz entered the building, Davis’s phone buzzed. He checked it, but was surprised to see the text wasn’t from his partner.
Davis, Maria sent. She’d still be on duty, IRL. She worked a long shift on Snapshot days. It’s getting close to your second case. You guys in the saferoom?
Yes, Davis sent back, trying to watch both the alley outside and his phone at once.
Good. You have the second case details. Head to Tenth. Be aware, there’s going to be some gang violence one block over, at Warsaw Street. Advised to stay away from that. Just check on the domestic case on Tenth.
Understood, Davis sent.
He considered telling her what they were really doing, but decided against it. They’d never turned off the Snapshot while Davis and Chaz were in it, but he wouldn’t put it past them. Of course, the two officers wouldn’t be reclaimed with the dupes, but it would still be disconcerting to watch it all break down around him.
He stood with his thumb on the phone. For months after the incident where Perez had died, he’d berated himself for not being strong enough. After that, he’d started to berate himself for ever thinking he could shoot another human being. It wasn’t in his nature, or it hadn’t been.
He had a copy of his own record, nestled on his phone, hidden away behind a password. He’d taken it off Maria’s computer at one point. So many commendations early on. Great investigator. Knows people; he can make them talk when nobody else can. People trust him, even those who shouldn’t.
And then the incident.
Unfit for fieldwork. Severe anxiety. Recommended for therapy and, if retained, strongly recommended that he be put on Snapshot duty.
The others in the precinct hadn’t used such sterile terminology about him. He still didn’t know if Maria had claimed him for Snapshot duty because she’d thought his investigative skills would be put to good use here, or if she’d assumed that this place would teach him how to kill.
Here, Chaz finally sent. No sounds from the pool locker room. Anything out there?
No, Davis sent.
I’m going to peek in.
Davis waited, heart beating rapidly. What a fool he was. He didn’t even have to be the one in danger for his nerves to go off!
He’s not here, Chaz sent. And nothing is disturbed. Let’s hope he doesn’t get spooked away permanently by the cops finding his last place.
Yeah, Davis sent. Be careful. If he doesn’t go in this way, you’ll have no warning.
Roger.
And then, a moment later, the phone buzzed again.
If it were me in danger, Chaz sent, you’d shoot.
I can’t say.
You would, Chaz sent. I know it.
Davis wasn’t sure. Even still. People felt that being in a Snapshot lowered the stakes. But at the same time, all these people—they’d been created so that Davis and Chaz could solve their little cases. An entire city populated, then destroyed in a day. Millions wiped out. A periodic holocaust. If he failed, it was all for nothing.
Seemed like huge stakes to him.
Anything? Chaz sent.
No. I’ll tell you if I see anything, Chaz. But if you keep distracting me— He stopped mid-sentence, and didn’t send the text.
Someone was moving through the alleyway. A tall man in a long coat, his hands in the pockets. With the sun having set, there wasn’t enough light to see him by, but he matched the profile.
Davis’s heart leaped. He’s here, he quickly texted.
Finally, Chaz sent.
Davis contained his breathing, trying not to imagine what would happen if the Photographer spotted Chaz. That wasn’t likely to happen. Was it? But what if he checked the woman they’d shot, and found her with a bullet wound? Davis hadn’t considered that.
The Photographer entered the building.
A short time later, Chaz sent, He just passed me. Went into the pool area.
At the very least, Davis didn’t have to keep worrying about Warsaw Street. They had a new case, a more important one. They wouldn’t be heading that way, and so none of his preparations would matter.
He found that idea comforting. Almost comforting enough to soothe his anxiety.
He’s looking in the door to where the bodies are, Chaz texted.
You followed him into the locker room?
Yeah.
Stop texting me and stay safe, idiot!
Davis waited, tense, staring at his phone and feeling a frustrating discordance. He’d just told Chaz not to update him—but that very silence put him on edge. He imagined his partner sneezing, the Photographer escaping. A dozen different scenarios.
He peeked in, Chaz sent, at the bee room. Seemed very worried about insects escaping, even though they’re all dead. It was dark in there though, and he doesn’t seem to have noticed that the woman was shot. Maybe he was just listening to hear if they were still breathing. He closed the door quickly, then went o
n to look over his improvised pool of water. I’m back outside. He’s eating a burger.
Davis relaxed, pulling the lid down to sit on the toilet. Honestly, it might have been less nerve-racking to go in himself, rather than waiting out here.
A door opened nearby in the apartment. Damn. The people who owned this place were back. I’m moving out to the street, Davis sent. So I can follow when he leaves.
He pushed out of the bathroom, causing a woman to drop her groceries and scream. Davis flashed her his badge, then realized he’d grabbed the reality badge and felt guilty for using it so injudiciously. Like Chaz did. Well, whatever.
He hurried out into the hallway, leaving the woman to collapse on her couch, holding her chest. He ran down the steps and into the night, then placed himself at the mouth of the alleyway connecting the back of the school to the street.
He settled down on the ground next to some steps, head bowed, trying to look like just another of the many bits of human refuse that littered the city.
A text came a short time later. He’s moving again. Back out your way.
So soon? Davis sent.
Yeah. He seems anxious. Just wanted to check things, I guess.
Wait a bit, Davis sent. Then follow.
Davis huddled there, proud at how calm his breathing was. When the Photographer passed him, he caught a good glimpse of his Asian features and black hair. Once the man was far enough ahead, Davis got to his feet and pursued silently.
He’s heading east, Davis sent.
I’ll go parallel, Chaz sent. Through the alleyways.
Roger.
As he followed, Davis began to feel a thrill. Perhaps this was what Chaz felt. He tried to think like his partner did. To him, this was all just a game. Couldn’t Davis enjoy a game?
Then the Photographer turned right.
Davis stopped on the corner.
He just turned toward Warsaw, Davis sent, his thumbs moving almost of their own accord.
Roger.
Davis continued on, feeling as if he were being pulled in the wake of the killer. The farther he walked, the more inevitable he realized it was. Of course the killer would turn toward Warsaw. Of course everything hinged on this point. Davis couldn’t have escaped it if he’d wanted.
Eventually, the Photographer turned up a set of steps into a townhouse in a row of old buildings pressed close to one another. They weren’t abandoned, just well used. Most had shingles worn off the roofs, making them look balding.
They’d found the killer’s real home. Davis stood there, looking up at it, bothered by how normal it seemed.
We’re one street over from Warsaw, Davis thought. Not on the side we were supposed to be on, for the domestic case. That would be two blocks away.
Though this wasn’t the exact same location where they would have gone if they hadn’t picked up this case, it was still eerily close. Davis checked his phone. 20:00 exactly. Seventeen minutes away.
Chaz caught up to him. They stood together, looking up at the narrow townhouse.
“So, we send Maria this address?” Chaz asked. “We’re done? They can go catch him here IRL?”
“I want more,” Davis said softly.
“More?”
“I need to talk to him.”
“I can go in and—”
“No,” Davis said, shocked by how firm he felt. “Watch outside. Catch him if he runs.”
“But—”
“Just do it, Chaz!” Davis said. “Stay out. Leave me alone.” At least until 20:17 had passed.
The other man stepped back, surprised.
It isn’t inevitable, Davis thought forcefully, walking up the steps. Was that how all the dupes felt? That their lives were their own? Never knowing that circumstances, replicated at the start of the day, would send them down exactly the same path?
He stepped up to the door, feeling his partner’s eyes on his back. Chaz would have kicked in the front door.
Davis knocked.
Such a courteous request of a serial killer with blood on his hands, but there it was. Davis knocked again, politely.
The Photographer opened the door.
Nine
Even having heard the description and having glimpsed the killer earlier, Davis found the man younger than he’d anticipated. He couldn’t be more than twenty-two or twenty-three. So young to have caused so much horror in his life.
“What do you want?” the Photographer asked, looking Davis up and down.
Davis held up his reality badge.
The Photographer saw it, eyes widening. Then he smiled. “It’s beautiful,” he whispered.
“I need to—” Davis began.
The Photographer tried to slam the door. Davis got his foot between it and the frame, moving by instinct to block it from being shut. In the rush of the moment, he didn’t even feel the pain. The Photographer turned and scrambled away.
“Davis!” Chaz called.
“Run around to the back door!” Davis shouted, shoving into the townhouse. He didn’t think. He was proud that he didn’t tremble. Yes, maybe his time in the Snapshot had changed him.
Inside, the walls were painted a homey shade of peach and the wooden floors were bare and polished. The Photographer ducked around a corner, and his feet thumped up a set of stairs. Davis followed in a rush, yanking his gun out.
He passed suitcases set along the wall. Packed, a part of him noticed. He’s leaving. This address is useless. They’ll find him gone IRL when they come here. The Photographer had indeed been spooked by the cops finding the pool earlier.
Davis dashed up the steps. Careful. Remember your training.
At the top of the steps, he checked his corners—right, then left—to make sure nobody was standing there ready to ambush him. Don’t let the runner draw you into being careless. Be quick, but efficient. Control the situation.
It was darker up here. No lights on. He continued forward, sweating, breathing in quick, sharp breaths. There were only two rooms in this hallway, which ended at a set of wooden steps pulled down from the ceiling, leading toward an attic.
Davis carefully checked one room, a bedroom, while trying to watch those steps ahead. The room was empty. He crossed the hallway and shoved open the other door, checking the corners.
No killer here either. But there was a captive.
An older Asian man sat on the ground, bound against the wall, weeping, with a gag over his mouth. On the floor in front of him was a series of cups that he’d barely be able to reach.
“I knew it,” a voice called from the hallway outside. From the direction of the wooden steps. “I knew it was a Snapshot. Nobody ever believed me. But I knew you’d come someday.”
Davis forced himself to ignore the captive. He stepped out into the hall again. The only light was what filtered up from the stairwell behind him, but it was enough to see that the hallway was completely normal. Pictures on the walls. A rug on the floor. The aroma of lemon-scented polish in the air.
And yet a kidnapped man wept to his right, and the icy voice of a madman floated down from the attic above.
Getting ready to flee out onto the roof maybe? Davis thought. These townhouses were built shoulder to shoulder; you could run across them. Davis would never chase down a younger man, in better shape, over that terrain.
“How did you know?” Davis called out, trying to think of something to stall the killer. “How did you figure out you were in a Snapshot?”
“The Deviations,” the Photographer called back. Yes, he’d climbed those wooden steps. He was right up there. Listening. “This life is too broken. Too many people gone wrong, too many neighborhoods left to rot. The Snapshot is . . . is falling apart. Too many Deviations.”
“You’re right,” Davis called. “Yeah, I’ve noticed too. We can’t let it happen. We’ve got to get rid of the Deviations, right? Keep the Snapshot stable?”
It was complete nonsense, but he could see how it might make sense.
“Why would you care?” th
e voice rasped.
“I’m part of it,” Davis said. “This is my home.”
The Snapshot is the only thing that is rational. Life is chaos the first time, but if you live it again, you see that it’s very orderly. The system is too complex for us to figure out on the fly. But if I could live here, I could always know what was coming. . . .
“No. You’re from outside. You’re a cop.”
“Doesn’t mean I can’t agree with you,” Davis shouted. “I can help you keep this place together. Make the Snapshot run. It needs to run, right? I have to keep it together, keep it from crumbling, so I can do my job.”
It seemed like the right thing to say, and remarkably it seemed to work. To an extent. The Photographer didn’t run. He shuffled up above.
“You’re a cop,” he finally repeated. “You’re here to stop me.”
“Not you,” Davis said. “No, not you. If we were in the real world, I’d have to stop you. But we’re not, are we? All I care about is keeping this place running. You’re doing that. You’re important. You’re the only one who has figured it out. You can help me. Help me cleanse this place.”
The Photographer started down the steps, but stopped on them, frozen. Uncertain. Davis felt sick, a striking nausea, as the man turned and started back up the steps.
“Wait!” Davis said. “Wait! I can prove it. I . . .” He trailed off, then stepped backward, looking into the room with the tied-up captive. The man reached his hands toward him, wrists bound, eyes pleading.
“I’ll prove it!” Davis whispered.
Just a Snapshot. Not real. This is the only way to save people who are real. Don’t be a coward. . . .
In a trance, Davis raised his gun at the man.
I can’t do this. I can’t. . . .
He’d already done it before with the push of a button. Hundreds of times. Every time he turned this place off.
He shot the man.
The gunshot broke the air. It was louder than he’d expected, and he winced. The man he’d shot slumped backward. This time the bullet had come out the back of the head, painting the wall.
Snapshot Page 7
