by Erik Carter
And pushed.
Hard.
Jane felt the air being squeezed out of her chest. She tried to breathe. Tried to move. Nothing was happening. She couldn’t take in enough air. Her heart fluttered. Panic set in. Sweat broke out across her forehead.
The figure pushed harder. Her chest caved. Gurgling noises came from her throat. Her vision blurred, whitened. She looked into the man’s face. Blank. A dark orb. A presence.
She felt a tear slide down her cheek.
This isn’t real…
Another shove from the man, and she started to gag. Black spots. Ringing in her ears. And then…
She bolted up in bed.
And screamed.
The sound echoed throughout her small, studio apartment.
She sat like this, hands on the mattress, chest heaving, eyes wet, panting. For just a moment. Then the phone rang.
She took a deep breath and answered. “Yes?”
“You scream again, Miss Logan. Wake me up.”
It was Mrs. Wang, owner of the house. Jane’s apartment was half of the building’s second floor.
“I know, Mrs. Wang. I’m very sorry.”
“You wake my cat too. She not happy.”
“Tell Petunia I’m sorry also. Sleep paralysis again.”
“That’s three times this week. Get better sleep. Try valerian root.”
“I’ll do that, Mrs. Wang.”
She hung up.
A couple more slow, deep breaths then she walked to the sink at the back of the apartment. It was a tiny place, and the sink served both the bathroom and the kitchen. She ran some water in a glass, took a few gulps, and looked at herself in the mirror. She couldn’t help but imagine the man returning, stepping up behind her reflection, and it sent a shiver over her flesh.
None of it had been real. She had to keep reminding herself.
Sleep paralysis. It had tormented her since she was a child, a condition in which the sufferer found him- or herself awake yet completely unable to move or speak. Paralyzed. It occurred during the surreal transition between consciousness and sleep, when the lines of reality were blurred. The sufferer frequently saw terrifying hallucinations, to which they could not react. They could only watch. Intense emotions such as fear and panic accompanied the hallucinations, which could present themselves in often macabre forms such as shadow figures and demons. Feelings of suffocation were common, and because the sufferer was stuck in a state between sleep and wakefulness, aspects of REM breathing heightened the sensation of suffocation. Though sleep paralysis was a mysterious condition, known triggers included abnormal sleep cycles, sleep deprivation, and stress.
The latter of which Jane had in spades.
She wet a wash cloth and wiped her face, assessed her reflection. She looked like crap. Tired, bloodshot eyes. It had been the better part of a year that she’d been back in San Francisco, back in California, following Jonathan Fair, as it seemed the entire city was now doing. But while everyone else had been following Jonathan during the frenzy of the last couple days, Jane had been focused on him for months. That’s why her skin was so pale. That’s why the bags under her eyes were so dark.
Some hair was stuck to her forehead, wet from the washcloth. She brushed it aside. It was wavy and dark, almost black. Not her natural color, which was reddish-brown. She’d had to slip into anonymity upon her return to California. Though she preferred her natural color, the dark hair served its purpose because it was a drastic change, and with it she could pass as either Hispanic or Italian. She had one of those faces.
She finished the glass of water then walked to her desk, which was squeezed between the front wall and the foot of her bed. Scattered over the desk’s surface and taped to the walls were all manner of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, pictures, and notes about the Jonathan Fair case. The wealth of information she’d gathered was staggering. And it all seemed to be leading her nowhere.
As she continued to search for her brother. Her twin.
She pulled out the chair and sat down. Her eyes traced over the materials to the two framed pictures she kept at the corner of the desk. The smaller one was a black-and-white photo of her and John as children, about ten years old, surrounded by massive tree trunks. The redwoods. John had a stick hoisted over his head. A pair of large hands rested on the children—one hand on John’s shoulder and another on Jane’s—from a figure who stood behind them. The rest of the person was cropped out of the photo. Her father. She hated having even the smallest bit of him visible, even just his hands. But it was the only picture she had of her and her brother at the family’s cabin. And those were some of the only sweet memories from her childhood.
She picked up the other frame. Her and John, in adulthood now, albeit young adulthood. Better days, before things got so crazy. Back when they were first on their own, when the danger hadn’t seemed quite so imminent. Back before his condition got worse. The picture had been taken during college. John with his shaggy hair and square glasses. Her with her arms wrapped around him. Both smiling.
It wasn’t long after this picture was taken that Jane had legally changed their identities, and when she’d done so, she’d had zero hesitation in choosing their new last name, Logan.
There had been no other name she even considered.
Years earlier. A sunny California day.
A twenty-two-year old Jane walked from the parking lot to her apartment building. It was three stories with a keypad-secured front entrance. She’d been harassed by her father’s goons during her first and second years of college, when she’d lived in the dorms and an apartment with an isolated, alley-facing entrance. She needed more safety, which was why she’d chosen this more secure building during her third and fourth years. After all, she wasn’t just protecting herself. She was also protecting John.
As it turned out, there hadn’t been any more incidents with Big Paul’s thugs since she moved into the new building. A two-year reprieve. A chance to breathe. It seemed that her father had lost interest in her and John, which was perfectly fine by Jane. He had already cut off funding after her freshman year when she’d used the platform of 1960s San Francisco activism to publicly speak out against her criminal family. Since then she’d worked her ass off to pay for the rest of her schooling and to provide for her twin brother.
She adjusted her purse as she approached the building, and a familiar voice called out from behind.
“Hey, neighbor!”
Jane turned. It was Logan Winters, the boy next door in her apartment building. He wore a cap and gown, and he looked her over as he stepped up beside her. “You didn’t go to graduation?”
“Nah, I had to give John a ride. Not really my kind of thing anyway.”
“You busted your butt for four years. Might as well get some recognition for it,” he said with a smile.
Logan was a big, smiley, Midwestern type of guy with light hair, blue eyes, and a broad chest. Handsome in a round-cheeked kind of way. Gregarious, warm, and a bit loud.
They walked up the steps, and Logan punched the code into the lock. He held the door open for her, and they entered the building.
“Tell you what,” he said. “Why don’t I take you out for a drink some time this week.”
“I don’t know…”
“Look, it’s great what you do for your brother. Wonderful. But you can’t spend every free moment you have watching over him.”
They stopped at her door.
Logan smiled, anxiously awaiting her answer. There was a childlike quality to him that was ridiculously endearing.
“Maybe…” she said.
He gave her a finger gun and a wink then stepped over to his own apartment door.
Jane smiled, shook her head, and unlocked the door.
Inside, she dropped the keys in the basket on the small table by the door. Her apartment was of typical college size and refinement. But whereas many college apartments were covered by posters featuring beer cans or half-naked people, her a
nd John’s apartment was decorated with altogether different posters. There were some from each twin’s tastes. John’s featured historical events and images of intrepid journalists. Jane’s posters were all from the movie Wizard of Oz. Her favorite. It was wish-fulfillment for her. The fantasy of getting somewhere far, far away from the criminal world of her father.
She walked across the apartment to the kitchen and reached into the fridge for some orange juice. There was a knock at the door.
She smiled again. The guy sure was persistent.
She heard the door open and looked up. In walked Danny, her older brother. For a moment, Jane was so stunned—and frightened—that she couldn’t form words.
“Danny? How did you get in this building?”
“People are surprisingly trusting around here,” he said.
That voice. Nasally, grating, and wicked.
It had been since high school graduation that she’d seen him, and if it were possible, he’d gotten even uglier—a few extra wrinkles to go along with everything else. Scruffy, bright red hair. Dark eyes with dark rings beneath. Big ears. Sunken cheeks. Small, pointy teeth.
Jane stammered. “Why are you here?”
“Can’t a guy visit his kid sister?” He looked left and right. “Where’s our brother?”
Jane paused. “He’s not here right now.”
A sneer came to Danny’s face. “You got him at a shrink appointment or something?” He snickered.
Then he walked toward her.
Jane inched toward the phone, on the wall by the refrigerator.
“Pop wants you back,” Danny said. “Both of you. Back in the family.”
Jane shook her head. “We’re never going back. We’ll never be part of your life.”
She was a couple feet from the phone.
Danny sucked in his chapped lips, moistened them. His eyes flicked to the phone and back to her. “No, sis, you got this all wrong. You have no choice in the matter.”
“The hell I don’t.”
She lunged for the phone, but Danny reached out and grabbed her arm. He yanked her back to the opposite side of the kitchen, threw her against the wall. His fingers dug into her forearm with such pressure that it made her eyes tear up, and he pushed in close to her.
She remembered when he had bullied her as a kid and how on more than one occasion he’d grabbed her breasts once they began to develop. She felt the same revulsion to him now, and though she hadn’t been near him in years, she felt like she had seen his disgusting face—so close to hers now—only yesterday.
“Let go of me, Danny. You’re hurting me.”
“You filled out nice, Janey.” His eyes roamed over her. “Pop let you have your fun, let you get your stupid degree, let you have a little taste of freedom. But now you’re coming back.”
Jane looked at the phone. Several feet away.
It was well out of arm’s reach.
So she screamed.
“Logan! Help! Logan!”
There had to be some benefit to living in an apartment with paper-thin walls.
Danny scowled at her, squinting, trying to figure out what she’d done.
A slamming noise from the other side of the apartment. Her door flew open. Logan rushed in. He was out of his gown, wearing a polo and jeans.
“Get your goddamn hands off her!”
Logan bounded over.
Danny released her arm, turned to Logan, and pulled back his suit jacket. He had a revolver in a shoulder holster. “Now just what do you think you’re gonna do here, big boy?”
Logan came to a stop. He looked to Jane and back to Danny. Then he continued toward them, stepped in between them.
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Brave,” Danny said with that sneer on his face again. He reached toward his gun...
And stopped. There had been a noise.
Another guy from the building—another neighbor—had entered the apartment. And another appeared in the doorway. And then a couple girls from two doors down.
Danny quickly threw his jacket back over the gun. He looked at Logan.
“All right, big boy,” he said and turned to Jane. “Pop’s not gonna like this. Not at all. I’ll see you soon, sis.”
He walked to the door and out of the apartment, shouting at the people who had gathered.
“Move your asses.”
He was gone.
Jane hadn’t noticed, but she now realized that she was shaking horribly, her whole body.
One of the neighbors called out to her. “You all right?”
She nodded. “Thank you.”
Everyone left. Except for Logan. He turned to her.
“Logan…”
She went to his chest and let his large arms wrap around her. He was a good hugger, and his big muscles felt soft and warm, encircling her like a blanket.
He had been so good to her for so long and so patient with her constant denials. So she looked up at him. Smiled. And finally gave him a kiss. A small peck on the lips.
There was that childlike quality again. His face lit up like a boy who just found his most coveted gift waiting for him under the Christmas tree.
Then he looked at the doorway, and his expression grew darker. “If he ever comes back, I’ll—”
“It doesn’t matter if he comes back,” Jane said. “I’m leaving. As soon as John gets home, I’m getting us the hell out of here and never coming back. I was a fool to think I could stay in San Francisco. I’ll change our names, get us someplace safe.”
“Where?”
Jane looked at the posters on the wall in the living room. “Somewhere over the rainbow.”
Whereas Logan had looked like an overjoyed boy on Christmas morning only moments earlier, now he looked like a boy whose dog had just been run over. Cheeks sank, lips tightened. She even thought she noticed his eyes glistening a tad. He really did like her. The big goof.
“Well… Goodbye, Jane.”
He turned.
“Logan, wait.”
She grabbed his wrist, pulled him around. And kissed him.
A real kiss this time.
She put her fingers in his hair, pulled his face in tight. Her lips moved over his, and she even gave him a little tongue.
Two years of patience. He’d earned it.
His hands went to her lower back and pulled her in tight. She felt her entire front side, all the right parts, squeezed against his strong body. Jane became excited, and she wanted Logan. And she realized she didn’t just want him in that moment. A whole wave of thoughts had flashed across her mind. A future with this brave and noble man, the most noble man she’d ever known aside from John, so different from her father and Danny and the other men in that world. A future with Logan. Her and Logan and John. And John’s other personalities.
But she knew she could never have that.
She pulled away from him.
“Goodbye, Logan.”
Logan looked at her. Hesitated. Then he nodded. Smiled. And left.
No, Jane could never have a life like that. So far, her short adult life had been dedicated to John—watching over him, providing for him, keeping him at a distance from her father. And now she had to turn things up a notch.
She and John had to disappear.
Chapter Twelve
Dale was trying to get his point across, but the cigarette smoke was so damn thick, he was having a hard time concentrating. He’d given Eliseo Delacruz several less-than-subtle looks, but the cigarette still rested in his fingers as he sat with his arms crossed over his chest, leaning back in his chair, watching Dale semi-skeptically.
The two of them and Yorke were in the conference room on the third floor of the Hall of Justice that had been delegated to the task force hunting down the missing people from the Second Alcatraz. Orange plastic chairs on casters lined the table that spanned the length of the room, the surface of which was strewn with notepads and folders. They’d finished lunch—sandwiches from a local deli—and the em
pty boxes and bags sat among the case materials. A large fruit tray was in the middle of the table. The walls were plastered with a hodgepodge of information—charts, maps, photos, lists—and there were several rolling cork boards, including the one with images of the escapees that had been in Beau Lawton’s office. There had been two photos crossed by masking tape Xs and labeled as CAPTURED the last time Dale saw the board. Now there were three.
Dale stood at the head of the table, giving a quick briefing to Delacruz and Yorke about what he’d learned that morning. A small paper plate was in his hand, mounded with fruit. People liked to say that food tasted best when it was purchased with hard-earned money, but Dale contended that free food tasted even sweeter. That’s why he always mercilessly pillaged deli platters and complimentary cookies. He bit into a watermelon chunk, and almost spat it out. It had absorbed Delacruz’s cigarette smoke and tasted like a fruity ashtray. Blech.
The books, articles, and documents Dale had gathered earlier at the San Francisco Public Library were on the table. On the blackboard behind him, he’d written three notes:
478
Abe Ruef
Eugene Schmitz
“Felix has left us two messages about the Great 1906 San Francisco Earthquake, the latest one saying that 478 was a lie.” Dale tapped the digits he’d written on the blackboard. “478 was the official number of people who died in the earthquake. Now, the first message he left some eight months ago said, Tell the truth about the quake. Clearly Felix thinks he’s alerting people to misinformation about the disaster. But who would be in a position to lie?”
“Government?” Yorke said.
Dale pointed at her. “Exactly. So that’s where I started digging. Turns out San Francisco was completely corrupt at the time of the earthquake. The entire city was under the grip of Abe Ruef, a political boss. The mayor at the time, Eugene Schmitz, was just Ruef’s puppet.”
Delacruz blew out a puff of smoke. “But why would Ruef put out incorrect information about the quake?”
“There’s the million-dollar question. Beau Lawton gave me a name who might be able to shed some light.” Dale stepped to the table and rummaged through his notes, retrieved the slip of paper Lawton had given him. “Britta Eaton. She’s dying to get us historical info for the case. I need to talk to her and see—”
