Motive ; One Last Day ; Going Viral

by Dustin Stevens

  “Oh, come off it,” I say, my face contorting to the side. “He didn’t have a desire to please, he was living vicariously through me. The problems began when he started to feel like he was being pushed out. The second I let him in on the plan, hinted that he and I were back on the level, he jumped back in.”

  My explanation does nothing to weaken the look on her face. She continues to stare at me as if I have boils growing from every exposed surface, as if I am a science experiment gone horribly awry.

  This was my one concern with the story, whether I told it to Carmen Pearson or Tom Brokaw. People hearing it all for the first time would superimpose their own morals and thoughts into the situation, forgetting that I’m merely relaying what was going on at a very specific point in time.

  “Again,” I say, “I’m telling you everything so you can get a full picture of what we were going through. Can I look back now and say it probably wasn’t right? Absolutely. Does that make a damn bit of difference about what happened then? None whatsoever.”

  Somehow, the look of disgust manages to grow even deeper on her face.

  “Just like if Quasi were still here,” I say, my voice lowering, “I’m sure he would like to go back and not walk out the door with me that night, but he did and everything that happened thereafter was on him, as much as me.”

  I don’t want to speak ill of the deceased, so I stop there. The fact is that had he survived, he would have been arrested as well. For what offense, it’s hard to say given the way everything shook out, but something that probably would have gotten him at least a little time in here with me.

  Whether or not she puts all this together as she sits scowling at me, I can’t be certain. All I can do is meet her gaze and wait for her indignation to pass.

  I consider glancing up to the clock on the wall and reminding her it is ticking, but I opt against it. She has to get past this, to be somewhere near neutral, before we continue.

  “Did you have a plan of any kind?” she asks.

  A tingle of mirth rises within me, though my face remains impassive.

  “Like I told Quasi, a rough one.”

  “And I assume this is the point where Terry Weinberg comes into play?”

  A pair of cracking noises sound out from my neck as I nod it up and down, my gaze tracking her the entire time.

  “That it is.”

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Wednesday, July 4th, 2012

  10:42 pm

  Quasi rips the tape away with reckless abandon, peeling one strip after another from the knit shirt. Every few seconds, he pauses to wad it into a ball before going back for more.

  “What the hell were you trying to do here?” he asks, the shirt writhing in his hands as he attempts to keep it steady.

  Glancing over at him, I smirk at how ridiculous the set up actually looks, but don’t comment on it.

  “I was thinking a shared point-of-view sort of thing,” I say. “You know, like police officers wear.”

  “Sounds more like a first-person video game,” Quasi quips, finally getting the last of the tape off.

  He rolls it into a misshapen bundle between his palms and tosses it over the seat, neither one of us caring where it lands. Pulling the camera free, he holds it at arm’s length, inspecting the equipment.

  “Impressive,” he mumbles.

  A tiny spark of offense passes through me that he sounds so surprised by what I’ve put together, but I let it go.

  Now isn’t the time.

  “How does it work?” he asks.

  Dropping my left hand to the bottom of the steering wheel, I lean back against the chair. The springs squeal a bit in opposition as my weight presses against it, my right hand digging into my pants pocket.

  The phone comes free easily, a small Smart Phone I purchased two weeks before with a data plan large enough to keep me streaming through Halloween. I toss it over onto his lap with a flick of the wrist, the implement rotating in air before dropping onto his thigh.

  “Wireless Bluetooth connection,” I reply. “The feed will run through the phone and right onto the web.”

  “You’re streaming through YouTube?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head as I make a right off the freeway.

  Most of the streetlights disappear from view as we go, the assorted noise that usually accompanies major thoroughfares falling away as well.

  “I set up an independent website,” I say. “Pauley is watching it now, will turn it live at exactly eleven, will shut it down and send it to YouTube whenever we’re done.”

  The mention of the name Pauley causes his face to draw in a bit tighter, though I don’t have time to deal with his insecurities right now. We have just twelve minutes to get into position before this thing kicks off.

  “You have it set up at the shop?” Quasi asks.

  “No,” I say, shaking my head.

  From the middle console between us, I take up a small sheet of paper and hold it close to my face, trying to decipher the directions I wrote less than hour ago.

  “He’s holed up over at the hotel I’ve been crashing at. Wasn’t happy about it, being Fourth of July and all, but after I casually mentioned how much his business has taken off thanks to us, he relented.”

  There was no mention of the term us when speaking to Pauley, though I can tell the inclusion means a lot to Quas.

  “Besides, Rae is there with him.”

  “That’s good,” Quasi whispers, “provided they stay on task and out of bed.”

  More than once I’ve thought the same thing, though I remain silent. There are so many ways that this thing can go irreparably wrong that there’s no point in delineating them all. We’re flying forward at breakneck speed here and we both know it.

  “Why are you crashing at a hotel?” he asks, his voice low and non-intrusive, classic Quasi passive-aggression.

  Given the circumstances, I decide to humor him.

  “Long story,” I say. “Mom and I had a falling out.”

  I glance over to see his mouth press together tight as he looks down at the equipment in his lap, pretending to check it over.

  “After tonight, my biggest concern was making things right with the two of you,” I say.

  A forced smile comes to my face as I glance over.

  “And as of now, one of those has been taken care of, right?”

  He meets my gaze for just a moment before looking back down, his hands fidgeting the entire time.

  “Right.”

  Despite the rear windows being open and wind pulsating through the car, sweat covers both of us. The longer we drive, the more tense we each become, our faces growing grim.

  Five minutes before show time.

  “Where are we going?” Quasi asks, turning to look out the passenger window.

  Around us, multi-story brick homes with well-groomed yards roll by, the kind with cobblestone driveways instead of concrete. Nowhere is there a basketball hoop to be seen, the shrubbery shaped into gaudy curlicues.

  “Cool Springs,” I say.

  A mumble of something crosses his lips as he continues to look around. “What are we doing in The Springs? This is all residential, there aren’t any businesses here.”

  I run a hand over my face, pulling away sweat, and wipe it against the leg of my pants.

  “Already tried the business thing once. That didn’t work out, so we’re reinventing as we go.”

  “Oh-kay,” he responds, the same tension I feel now present in his voice, “but what are we doing out here?”

  I back off on the engine and pull the car to the side of the road, staring at the house at the end of the street. Two stories tall and made entirely of red brick, it sprawls outward from a central doorway.

  More importantly, the light above it is the only one on in the house.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I stare at it, idling the car a little closer and coming to a stop just past the driveway. Apprehension fades to anticipation as I turn to Quasi and nod. />
  “Back to where this all began.”

  Chapter Sixty

  “Terry Weinberg?” Quasi asks, his face an equal mix of shock and aghast. “Why the hell are we here?”

  I can feel my own eyes bulge as I look at him, surprised he doesn’t see the perfect symmetry of it.

  “Because he’s the one that started all of this,” I say. “If not for him, I would still be a fast food manager and you would be a part-time IT guy. He was the one who told us to get out and get some life experience. He’s the one responsible for the creation of Chaz D.”

  “There was never supposed to be a Chaz D,” Quasi counters, his voice rising just a bit. “We were just doing a few things to bolster James Buchanan.”

  Just hearing that name pushes animosity through my system, my mouth twisting up tight as my hands ball into fists. Hundreds of retorts rush to mind as I stare across at Quasi, every part of me wanting to reach out, slap him, take back my phone and camera and do this alone, just as I had planned.

  “And this is the final thing,” I say.

  I know I am on thin ice here, his expression already letting me know he is uncertain at best about ever stepping outside.

  “Seriously,” I add, “just like I explained to you earlier, we’ll get inside, swipe something small, under five hundred dollars to avoid any serious jail time. After everything dies down and we’re given probation, we’ll make one final post. We’ll explain to the world what this was all about and we’ll go back to those lives we were supposed to lead.

  “Bestselling novelist for me, right-hand-man extraordinaire for you.”

  I give the speech with so much conviction I almost believe the words myself. My breath catches in my chest as I stare at my friend, imploring him to join me.

  “Besides,” I add, my mouth curling up into a half smile, “you’ve already destroyed my backup cameraman.”

  I nod down at the mutilated shirt on the floor between his feet, his gaze following me down to it.

  He stares at it a moment before he too smiles, twisting his head to either side.

  “I can’t believe you were going to do that. After all the care we put into these things, you suddenly want to switch to shaky cam?”

  My smile grows larger as I look at him, knowing he is in. I have no idea if we’ll only get a slap on the wrist and some probation, but it sounds legit and gets us to where we need to go.

  This is the final moment for Chaz D. We can’t let a few legal ramifications stand between us and that.

  The phone in Quasi’s lap buzzes to life, the screen illuminating between us. Across the front of it is the name Pauley, a picture of the parlor as the background.

  We both sit in silence a moment staring at it before Quasi lifts it and hands it across, touching only the top corner.

  “I believe it’s for you.”

  I meet his gaze and nod before accepting the phone and pressing it to my face.

  “We ready?”

  “Cocked, locked, and ready to rock,” Pauley says, sounding like he’s already a good ten glasses into whatever concoction he’s been drinking all afternoon. “You guys on?”

  “Give us one minute,” I say, glancing to Quasi.

  The new camera is much smaller in his hand than his iPhone, his pudgy mitt almost swallowing it whole. I can see sweat droplets on his brow and think of reminding him not to drop the camcorder, though I remain silent.

  The call disconnects as I set up the live feed on my phone, checking the image on the screen in my hand.

  “Hold it up here to face me,” I say, counting seconds backwards in my head.

  On cue, Quasi raises the camera using both hands, my own face appearing on the screen.

  “Alright,” I say, “we’re good.”

  I hand him back the phone and run my hands down the front of my pants, twin wet streaks visible on the dark fabric. My heartrate and breathing pattern both jolt upward as Quasi holds the camera up in front of him.

  The clock on the dash changes to eleven as I stare at the camera, giving Pauley just a few extra seconds. Once I know we’re live, I slip right back into character, a crooked grin masking any trepidation I feel.

  “Good evening and Happy Independence Day, America!” I say, lifting my voice more than I intend to, but unable to stop it in the face of the adrenaline surging through me.

  “This is your man Chaz D, here to welcome you to our first ever live broadcast, the night where we bring this thing full circle.”

  I glance past the camera to the house before us, the front porch light still the only illumination on the grounds.

  “From here on out, we will be going to strict radio silence, so I invite you all to sit back, relax with your favorite beverage, and watch me go to work.”

  Chapter Sixty-One

  I am aware of Quasi behind me only so much as I can hear his breathing. He is panting loudly as he tries to keep up, following me around the side of the house. My own senses seem to reach an elevated state as I bend at the waist and jog across the front yard, the fresh sod giving an extra spring to my step.

  Eschewing the driveway for the opposite side, I lead us in a wide loop, avoiding any kind of light from the front porch. It might make for a dark image, but we can’t run the risk just yet. Not until we’re inside.

  The entire back of my shirt clings to my skin as I slide to a knee beside the shrubs lining the side of the house. My breathing is limited to deep pulls through my nose, looking back to see the car and the rest of the neighborhood has fallen from sight.

  By choosing the end unit and trying to prove his worth, Weinberg has made our job even easier for us.

  Quasi falls to his knees beside me, his breathing loud and heavy. I wish he would keep it down so as to not alienate our viewers, but so far, the camera hasn’t once wavered.

  Tough to fault him for that.

  I offer an upward thumb to the camera before shifting my attention to Quasi. Using my index and middle finger, I fashion the peace sign, pointing to my eyes and then the backside of the house. He nods as if he understands what I mean, though the gesture is one entirely for the camera. There is nobody home and I certainly don’t need to tell him to keep an eye out.

  Once my breathing has regained a slower pace, I duck walk along the side of the house and around the back. An oversized brick patio meets me as I arrive, a red oak deck built directly in the center of it. Aside from that, there are no signs of life of any kind. No gas grill, not a stick of outdoor furniture.

  The wood of the deck creaks lightly beneath my feet as I walk to the back door. Quasi’s footfalls echo behind me, bringing a scowl to my face as I again check the windows for any lights. Giving him a dirty look in front of the camera won’t do me any good, but pausing long enough to let it be known I’m checking to ensure we weren’t heard should get the point across much the same.

  Along the back of the house is a series of six floor-to-ceiling windows, all of them without curtains or drapes of any kind. On the other side of the glass is an informal dining room, an elongated table with hardback chairs arranged around it.

  Slowing my pace just a bit, I check over the rear of the house, most of the place shrouded in shadows. Aside from the table, there are only a few random bits of furniture, the home appearing very much uninhabited.

  A moment of panic passes through me as I dig into my left front pocket and extract a quarter. Earlier this afternoon, I beveled one edge of it down to a fine point, an old trick I once saw in the movie The Rock. Holding it at arm’s length, I make sure the camera can see it, pretending to inspect my work.

  The address was one I got from general information, a mad dash scramble for something the moment I realized Rider Life wasn’t going to work. Judging by the office, Weinberg hasn’t been in town long and if he has any family they certainly aren’t around yet. The place just screams bachelor living, from the simple furniture designs to the lack of any personal touches at all.

  I only hope we’re not about to enter an
empty house.

  Taking a deep breath, I swallow down my concerns about walking inside to find absolutely nothing of value. Breaking and entering might be enough to earn us some probation, but it definitely won’t be enough to get Chaz D the respect he deserves.

  I give a grim nod to the camera and place the honed edge of the quarter against the window, dragging it in a lopsided circle just a few inches from the handle. A hellacious screeching sound erupts from the glass as an uneven line appears, the two ends connecting in a messy intersection.

  It’ll have to do.

  Turning perpendicular to the house, I make sure my face is towards the camera as I draw my left elbow across my body and snap it at the roughhewn circle I just cleaved. On contact, the glass falls into the house, the small circle making just a tinkling sound as the shards hit the ground.

  For a moment, I am so surprised that it worked that I forget to move. Fear grips me as I stare inside, expecting some light to come on, to see a dark silhouette emerge from the back.

  Not until Quasi gives me a small throat clear do I snap back into action, reaching my hand through the circle and twisting the locking mechanism above the handle.

  After that, it is just a simple pivot of the brass hardware and we are inside.

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  We leave the back door standing open, careful to avoid the jagged of pieces of glass lying in a haphazard pattern across the floor. My boots echo against the hardwood underfoot, seeming to reverberate through the house.

  In the last six months, I have tried innumerable things for the first time. Each one brought with it a new set of excitement and uncertainty, though I now realize they pale compared to what I’m doing here.

  Standing in the dining room of Terry Weinberg’s house, I have no idea what my next move is. I’m almost paralyzed with options as I look around, but never before in my life have I felt more alive. This very moment is what everything has been about. The police may be en route to get me. Weinberg could get home at any moment.