The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes

by Marcus Sakey

  The rock smacked into the Mustang’s windshield. The alarm started, headlights flashing and horn honking, the sound and light seeming to carry the rock as it bounced away.

  5

  Wayne Reynolds had his feet up on the desk, sitting sideways to the computer, browser open to Apartments.com. It had a color-coded map of the city, overlays that tinted it gray and orange and purple.

  Should just tint it shades of green.

  The east side, or in the valley, there were places he could afford. But Marta wanted to leave their cookie-cutter two-bedroom in Crenshaw and head for the beach. Maybe Santa Monica, she’d said, like there was a chance of that. Like all you needed to live there was a taste for ocean breezes.

  He clicked to the search, filled the maximum rent field with what they paid now. The results were . . . uninspiring.

  “Garden apartment.” Code for “subterranean.”

  “Efficiency” really meant “you like shitting and cooking in the same room?”

  And “loft” in this case should have read “windowless bunker.”

  Wayne sighed, reached for his sandwich—tuna with fat-free mayo and sprouts, Marta trying to help him on the diet—and took a joyless bite. Here was something, a one bedroom in Tarzana that didn’t look bad—

  A horn started honking, once, twice, three times, steady. He glanced at the security monitor, saw that it was one of his. Jerry Logue’s Mustang. Damn. Wayne couldn’t see anyone in the lot. Probably just set off by the vibrations of a passing truck.

  That’s the problem, Wayne, honey, you never take any initiative. If you want to get ahead . . . Marta’s voice from their fight last week.

  He sighed, shrugged, stood up. Checked the Taser on his belt, grabbed the flashlight, walked out of the office. The lobby was quiet, the track lighting low, casting dramatic highlights and shadows. Wayne shouldered open the door, the ring of keys on his belt jingling. The night was cool, the sky above a wash of purple clouds.

  The Mustang was blaring away, lights flashing. He put one hand in his pocket against the chill and swept the big Maglite around with the other. No one took off running. He reached the car, stood there for a second. Now what? Dust for prints?

  No one in the lot that he could see. Traffic on Ventura was light. In the drugstore next door, a guy standing next to an Explorer was looking over, apparently drawn by the alarm. When he saw Wayne, the guy nodded, turned back to his truck.

  Wayne bent down, shined the light underneath the Mustang. No one leapt out. He shrugged, kicked at the tire. The moment his foot touched it, the alarm shut off.

  I am Magical! Wonder Wayne to the rescue. He turned off the flashlight and headed back inside, wondering about that place in Tarzana. Not exactly Santa Monica, but it would be a change at least, and that was probably what she really wanted. And with the economy the way it was, he might be able to bargain the price down.

  It felt good to step back into the warmth of the lobby. He glanced at his watch. The next scheduled rounds weren’t for another twenty minutes. Still, may as well do them now; he was up, and dinner wasn’t much enticement.

  Wayne looked down the hall, decided to hit the second floor first. He started for the elevator, heard Marta’s voice reminding him he could use the exercise, and took the stairs instead.

  5

  From the parking lot of the CVS next door, Bennett watched the fat guard approach the Mustang. The man saw him looking, and Bennett nodded, then turned, started digging in his pocket like he was looking for keys. After a moment, the alarm stopped, and the guard strolled back inside. High security.

  Bennett smiled, waited a few more seconds, then left the parking lot and headed back to Hayes’s window. He’d thrown the rock through as soon as the Mustang’s alarm had started, and even standing right next to it, the crash had been largely drowned out. Careful not to cut himself, he pulled out some of the larger chunks of glass at the bottom, dropped them in the weeds, and let himself in.

  The office was simple but appealing. A desk with a couch opposite. A small conference table. A mini-fridge, and on top of it, three bottles of whiskey. He poured himself a couple of inches of the best, sipped at it. Nice.

  Okay. Time to work.

  He pulled the blinds to cover the glow from his penlight and started with the desk, taking it one drawer at a time. It didn’t take long; there wasn’t much in it. He’d wondered why Daniel kept this office, what with the lovely room Bennett had discovered in the guy’s Malibu home. Apparently, the reason didn’t have much to do with writing. Meetings, maybe. Bennett had never been big on meetings, but this looked like a nice place to have one.

  He checked behind the framed Memento poster for a safe; no joy. Same with the posters for Solaris and The Fountain. He took down and opened the books on the shelf, titles like Save the Cat and The Writer’s Journey, but again, nada.

  Bennett stood in the center of the room, looked around. He traced a ridged scar on his bicep, a deep cut from a knife in Detroit. Where next?

  He didn’t really expect to find anything here; it was a little obvious, even for Daniel. Still, the guy had hidden Bennett’s payment somewhere. And until Hayes reappeared, it was worth the effort to look. A half-million dollars was worth a whole lot of effort.

  Methodically, then. He took another sip of whiskey, set down the glass, and, using the desk as the starting point, began to work his way around the room. If there was something to be found, he’d find it.

  5

  Wayne walked a circuit of the second floor, the keys percussion to his tuneless humming. The light was on in Jerry Logue’s office, and he knocked. May as well score brownie points. The door opened, and Logue’s beak popped out. “Yes?”

  “Mr. Logue, it’s Wayne, with security,” he said, as if the guy couldn’t have told from the uniform, as if the dick hadn’t walked past him a hundred times.

  “Yes?”

  “Just wanted to let you know your car alarm went off.” The guy cocked an eyebrow.

  “I checked it out, but everything seems fine.”

  “Great.”

  “Thought you’d want to know.”

  “Great.” The man shut the door in his face.

  You’re welcome, asshole.

  The rest of the floor was quiet, and he went back down the stairs,

  taking each of them, the way they said you got the most exercise. Back in the lobby, he turned right, headed down the hall. Everything was quiet, most of the tenants gone for the night. He turned the corner, past the Council for Colombian Imports—that just had to be a joke—realized he needed to take a leak. Unlocked the head, the fluorescents flickering on as he walked in. He stepped up to the urinal, unzipped, rocked back and forth on his heels. Corporate bathrooms always gave him the willies. Something about the weird, impersonal cleanliness of the things. And the no-touch faucets and hand dryers. His other superpower, besides stopping car alarms, was invisibility to sensors. He spent twenty seconds trying to get the sink to admit he existed. Now to decide whether to use my powers for good or evil. He didn’t bother with the hand dryer, just wiped on his pants and stepped out.

  There was a light in suite 106.

  Wayne froze. Stared at the frosted glass of the door. He stood still, concentrating. Was that a scrape he heard from inside?

  So someone is in the office. That’s kind of the point.

  Sure. But 106 was Mr. Hayes’s. The guy had always been pleasant to him, seemed like a nice guy, but then, that’s what everybody said about people who turned out to be killers. “Oh, that Theodore Bundy, he seemed like such a nice boy.”

  That’s the problem, Wayne, honey, you never take any initiative. If you want to get ahead . . .

  Wayne took a step forward. His keys rattled, and he froze. Slowly, he unclipped them from his belt, held them in one sweaty palm. He tiptoed, feeling ridiculous, too big to be tiptoeing, but what the hell, it was working, and besides, there was no one to see.

  A sound like a drawer opening and closing
came from inside, and, dimly, another quick glow of light.

  Wayne’s heart kicked into gear. What now, Wonder Wayne?

  As quietly as he could, he found the master key on the ring and eased it into the door. Drew his Taser, the grip strange in his hand. He hadn’t fired the thing since the training course two years ago. Still, it took about as much skill as a remote control. If he could change the channel, he figured he could Tase one screenwriter.

  Okay. Do it smooth. Seeing the headlines already, HERO SECURITY GUARD CAPTURES WIFE-KILLER, he twisted the key, threw open the door, then raised the flashlight and thumbed it on as he stepped inside. Saw Daniel kneeling at a filing cabinet half a dozen feet away, jerked the beam onto him, yelling, “Mr. Hayes, freeze!”

  The man froze. But it wasn’t Daniel Hayes.

  Wayne didn’t recognize him, an average-looking guy in a black leather jacket, a penlight in his mouth to leave his hands free as he looked at the files. A dozen thoughts came from a dozen directions, colliding in the center of his brain, leaving no clear winner.

  “Whoa,” the guy said, and stood up, blinking. “Jesus. You scared the shit out of me.”

  Wayne said the only thing that came to mind. “You’re not Mr. Hayes.”

  “Right you are.”

  “I thought—”

  “Let me guess.” The man at ease. “You thought I was my partner.”

  “Your partner?”

  “Daniel. He’s my writing partner.”

  Which meant that Wayne had just barged into a locked office without permission. Shit, shit, shit. But then, wait a second, his thoughts racing, that didn’t make a lot of sense. If the two were partners, how come he’d never seen the guy? And what about the flashlight? “What are you doing here?”

  “My old lady and me got in a fight. Dan let me crash here till she comes round.” The dude smiled at him, lowered his hands, put one to his heart. “She-it, you scared me.” He squinted at Wayne, said, “You mind getting that thing out of my eyes, chief?”

  “How’d you get in here?”

  “I broke the window.” The guy gestured over his shoulder. “How do you think? The front door.”

  “I haven’t seen you.”

  “Been here all day. Now, seriously, get that light out of my eyes.”

  Something wasn’t right, but he was so calm. And it wasn’t really Wayne’s business, not without an evident disturbance. He lowered the light to splash at their feet, the reflection bright enough still to see by. “You have some ID?”

  “At home.” The guy looked sheepish, scratched at his head. “Left in kind of a hurry, you know? My wife was throwing plates, and she’s got a wicked arm.”

  Marta wasn’t a plate thrower, but Wayne could relate to the desire to get to out quick when a fight started. He’d never liked conflict. Something Marta often pointed out when she suggested he might want to get another job, something with a bigger future.

  Then his mind processed something he’d seen but not really noticed. “Wait.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why are you wearing gloves?”

  5

  Well, shit.

  Bennett laughed, ducked his head sheepishly, his left hand moving up to scratch at his temple again, hoping the first time had gotten the guard used to it. He said, “Funny story,” then, while the guard watched his left hand, he snaked his right behind his back, jerked the Colt, and brought it to bear. “That would be so I don’t leave fingerprints.”

  The man stared at him, lips slightly parted. There was a crumb of something in his mustache and sweat on his forehead.

  “Here’s the story, chief.” Bennett kept up the affable tone. “You’ve got a Taser, security issue—what is that, the C2?—so not even one of the bad boys the cops carry. And me, I’ve got a Colt Defender. There’s three ways this plays out. Number one, I shoot first. A .45 hollow-point is designed to expand on impact and shred internal organs like a blender. Not so good for you. Option two, maybe we both shoot at the same time. This distance, you can’t miss, but neither can I. So I get shocked for thirty seconds, no fun, but you get shot, so again, worse for you.” He paused, working the theater. “Option three, and this one’s the real doozy, maybe you’re faster than you look. You get me before I can pull the trigger. Thing is, you know what happens then? All that electricity slams through my system, and wham, my muscles start contracting—including my index finger, which means, yep, you guessed it. You get shot.”

  The guard hesitated, ran a tongue along his lips. Bennett could see a vein jumping just above the fat man’s eye. “Basically, you’re outgunned, friend. Bad luck, but that’s life.”

  “Put your weapon down and step over to the desk.” The guy’s voice squeaky.

  “I’ve got a better idea. I don’t really want to shoot you. So here’s what I propose. You lower that thing. I’ll lower mine. Then we each go out the way we came. Five minutes after I’m gone, you can come in here, find the broken window, maybe you get to be a hero after all.”

  A long pause, the guy thinking over everything he’d said. “How do I know—how do I know you won’t shoot me?”

  “Why would I shoot you? Get homicide detectives looking for me? No thank you. I just want to walk out.” He held the moment, then said, “Look, it’s up to you. Be a hero or a corpse. But if you lower your toy there, I promise, I won’t hurt you.”

  The air in the room was cool, the broken window letting in a November breeze. Bennett held his aim steady, the gun at waist level but square at the man’s fat chest. He could see the man thinking it over, could practically read his thoughts: the twelve dollars an hour he made, the dinner waiting at his desk, the way he desperately needed to take a piss. Saw the decision come over his face, a simple weighing of options, and then the guard lowered his weapon.

  Bennett cracked him in the face with the butt of the Colt.

  The man made a squealing sound, the Taser falling from his fingers as reflex brought his hands to his face. Blood rushed between his knuckles, and his eyes went wobbly. He staggered backward, tripped over his own feet, and fell.

  Bennett picked up the Taser, tossed it aside. The guard was panting and keening.

  “Funny thing,” Bennett said. “I’ve never understood it. Promise something, people tend to believe it. Even if the guy saying it has a gun pointed at them.” He reached for his whiskey, knocked it back. With the heightened senses that came of action, every taste bud glowed.

  The guard scrabbled at the floor, pulling himself on his elbows. Bennett wiped the rim of the whiskey glass clean, then set it down and went behind the desk. Found the rock he’d thrown through earlier.

  Fatso had a name tag, read Wayne Reynolds. Bennett sighed, then dropped down to straddle the man, pinning the guy’s arms down.

  “No,” Wayne said, the sounds coming out boh through his broken nose. His eyes were wild. “Don’t.”

  “Sorry. No choice.”

  “Wait. No. I don’t know who you are. You don’t have to—”

  “Unfortunately, once I’m gone, you’ll get brave again. You’ll call the cops, and they’ll look through the security tapes, and you, wanting to be a hero, you’ll point me out. And then they’ll see that I wasn’t wearing gloves when I came in earlier, and they might pull a print. And that, my friend, I cannot have.”

  “I bohn’t. I won’t tell them anything.”

  “Can’t risk it.”

  “Please—”

  “I am sorry about having to do it this way. Nothing personal. But this has to look amateurish.” Bennett raised his arm.

  Wayne screamed, “Marta!” as Bennett brought the rock down.

  The guy stopped yelling right away. But it took more hits than Bennett expected before he stopped breathing.

  5

  INT. HALL OF JUDGMENT—AFTERNOON

  A square room made of heavy blocks of stone. Torches flicker on the walls, smoke rises to the ceiling.

  There is a faint, solemn sound like waves in the distanc
e.

  DANIEL HAYES sits in a chair, elbows on knees. There’s something dark on his hands. He starts to touch one with the other, hesitates.

  JUDGE 1 (O.S.)

  Blood.

  Daniel looks up, startled.

  There is a table in front of him. Behind it sit three hooded figures. The JUDGES are tall and skeletally thin, and he cannot make out their features.

  DANIEL Where am I?

  JUDGES 2 & 3 (in sync)

  Guilty.

  JUDGE 1

  Blood on your hands.

  The judge’s speech is deep, sonorous, a voice from the bottom of a well.

  Daniel looks down, sees that dark liquid now covers his fingers. He jerks, holds them out. A drop falls to the floor, and then another.

  DANIEL

  I didn’t do anything!

  JUDGES 2 & 3

  Guilty.

  JUDGE 1

  If you didn’t do anything, why are you here?

  DANIEL

  I . . . I don’t know.

  JUDGES 1

  Then how do you know you don’t belong here?

  DANIEL

  I’m dreaming. This is a dream. JUDGE 1

  The rest was a dream. This is real. DANIEL

  No. No, that can’t be—

  JUDGES 2 & 3

  Guilty. JUDGE 1

  Blood on your hands. Blood on your soul. DANIEL

  I don’t believe you. I don’t believe this. (clenches his fists)

  I’m not a monster.

  JUDGES 2 & 3

  Guilty.

  DANIEL

  No!

  He lurches up from the chair. The judges sit still as buildings, the hollow of their cowled hoods perfect black.

  Daniel turns, starts to run. Trips over the chair, pulls himself up.

  There is a heavy wooden door on the wall behind him. He grabs the handle, pulls, the door grinding an inch at a time.

  JUDGES 2 & 3 (O.S.)

  Guilty!

  INT. DANIEL & LANEY’S MALIBU HOUSE—CONTINUOUS

  The medieval room, the robed judges, the torches, they’re gone.

  Daniel stands in his kitchen. Shadows cast through the window stain the floor, the walls, the counters. The sound of the ocean is louder.