by Sean Platt
Just thinking about it all makes me ill, but I keep pouring through the documents, adding finishing touches to the story.
My phone rings just before lunch.
Private Number.
I pick up the phone. “Hello?”
A man’s voice: “Mr. Clarke?”
“Yes.”
“It’s Pastor Wilson. Do you have time to meet with me?”
“I’m kind of in the middle of something.”
“It’s about the story you’re working on. We need to talk.”
“We can’t do it over the phone?”
“No. I need to see you, and your editor, if possible.”
“Okay, hold on a second.”
I tell Yvonne what’s happening, and we agree to meet the pastor behind our paper’s small shopping center.
Fifteen minutes later, Yvonne and I are standing outside at a picnic table and bench behind the Chronicle where staffers often sit and either shoot the shit or hash out stories. Dark clouds and a cool breeze promise rain.
As we wait, Yvonne sighs. “I’m sorry that we’ve gotta come back here after the service. I know none of us will feel like doing shit after that.”
“Maybe it’s better this way,” I say. “Being alone the past few days didn’t do much for me. But being back here, working on something that matters, it’s helping.”
“Yeah, I’m the same way.” Yvonne nods, looking like she wants to say something more but unsure how to bring it up. Finally, she just comes out with it, as she’s prone to doing.
“Are you blaming yourself … for not asking her out when you could have? Thinking maybe she might not have been looking to meet someone online if you two were together?”
I hadn’t been thinking that, but I’m sure Tommy must have been. That would help explain his overwhelming guilt.
I nod.
“Why didn’t you ask her out? You know she thought the world of you.”
“Are you trying to make me cry?” I ask, half joking and the rest of me serious. “You think I don’t feel bad?”
“I’m sorry, I just never quite understood why you two didn’t get together. I know, I know, it’s not my business, and as your boss, I probably shouldn’t even have condoned such relationships in the office. It’s just … I dunno. So fucking sad.”
“I know.” I’m fighting the urge to fall into Tommy’s wallowing depression. In addition to his feelings, I now have Lara’s regret for not getting with Tommy.
We stare out in silence for a bit.
Suddenly, a heavyset man in a Seahawks baseball cap, blue jeans, a red T-shirt, and brown jacket approaches from the other direction. He’s on foot. Pastor James Wilson.
“Hi,” he says, waving nervously as he approaches.
I’m not sure if he’s met Yvonne before, but I go ahead and introduce them, anyway.
“Mr. Wilson, this is Yvonne Lopez, the Chronicle’s editor. Ms. Lopez, this is Pastor James Wilson of the First Baptist Church.”
They shake hands and trade hellos.
Wilson doesn’t just look nervous; he looks outright terrified. Councilman Gray must’ve threatened him.
So, why is he here?
Yvonne asks, “So what did you want to talk to us about?”
“I need you to cancel the story.”
“What?” I shout.
“I need you to cancel the story. I’ve decided to sell the land. Bova Holdings made me a very generous offer, and I’ve decided to take it.”
“Wait a second,” Yvonne says, before I can talk, “what happened to ‘The only way they’ll get this land from me is to claw it from my cold, dead hands?’”
“I’ve had a change of heart,” he says, looking down.
“Bullshit,” I say, “they got to you.”
The pastor looks up at me, eyes wide, shaking his head. “I had a change of heart is all. It’s difficult enough to lead the congregation under normal circumstances, but a lot of people in town work for Bova Holdings and many of them go to my church. Do you understand how much a prolonged legal battle would damage our congregation?”
“You knew this when you came to the Chronicle, begging us to look into Bova Holdings. You were prepared for a fight. Something’s changed.” I press him. “What do they have on you?”
Yvonne looks at me. Her grin says she’s proud of me for calling him on his bullshit.
“Have on me?” His face is turning red, and I’m surely pushing my luck. I don’t care.
“Yes, have on you. I know how these people operate. They’ve done something to force your hand. I want to know what that is.”
He ignores my question and turns to Yvonne.
“If you run this article, you’re going to destroy whatever peace we’ve reached. You’ll risk the sale of our church — they’re offering us more than enough money to rebuild, in a better location. And you’ll destroy our congregation. I’m begging you, please don’t run this article.”
I want to say no, screw that, but I let my boss talk.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilson, this story isn’t just about you and the church, it’s about an abuse of public trust, possible illegal dealings, and now, maybe extortion. I can’t kill a story because you’re scared.”
Wilson’s face turns redder. His brows furrow and his voice becomes sharp, threatening. “If you run this story, I will disavow anything attributed to me.”
“We have you on tape,” I say.
He glares at me. “I’ll say it’s edited, taken out of context, something.”
Yvonne says, “So, you’ll lie?”
“I don’t want to lie, but I will do whatever it takes to protect my church.”
We’re at a standoff.
I want to tell him I know about the flash drive, but I have no idea what kind of fallout there’ll be, or what risk I might be putting Tommy and the paper in. These people don’t screw around, and while Tommy and Yvonne might be willing to go full court press on Bova Holdings and the council members, they do not want to tangle with Mr. Bruno and his associates.
I keep my mouth shut.
Pastor Wilson gives it a final attempt, putting on his kindest smile as if he wasn’t threatening us with fire and brimstone just seconds ago. “Please, I’m begging you. Think of what you’ll do to my church, to this community. Please, reconsider.”
Yvonne says, “We’ll think about it, Pastor.”
“Thank you.” He shakes our hands then walks back toward wherever he parked.
“So, are you going to kill the story?” I ask once he’s gone.
“Hell no,” Yvonne says, smiling.
“Would it be wrong for me to ask you to marry me?” I joke.
She laughs then leads us back inside.
After lunch, Katelynn has an assignment to cover, leaving Yvonne and me alone in the newsroom to work on the story. There are other people in the office, but they’re up front, and we’re sitting next to one another at a large four-person desk, out of earshot.
I want to capitalize on our moment alone and try to find out if Yvonne has any recollection of her missing day. I’ve never had a chance to talk to someone whose body I’ve been in before. I think I have an avenue without giving myself away.
“I’m sorry for not coming in the past few days.”
“It’s okay,” she says. “I understand.”
“No, it was selfish of me. I was so wrapped up in my own pain that I didn’t consider that the paper had to go on and that you all were working. I don’t know how you did it, and I hope I can make it up to you, leaving you all like that.”
“It’s okay. We all handle grief differently. And while Lara was like a sister to me, I know you had a close relationship with her, too.”
“It’s so weird. I don’t even feel like I was myself the past few days. It’s like I wasn’t here, or as if someone else took over while I was off grieving. Do you know what I mean?”
I look at her, seeing a sense of recognition, and feel hopeful.
“I was feeli
ng like that on Sunday. Felt like I was walking around in a daze. Barely remember a thing.”
“But you do remember some things?”
“Yeah, I remember things that happened, but it’s kind of foggy, like I was drunk or something.”
“Yeah,” I agree, so she doesn’t wonder too much about her own memories. “Same here.”
Not for the first time, I’m wondering how this all works. When I’m in someone, are the hosts still there, witnessing events as if they’re experiencing them? Or do they wake up the next day with their memories filling the gaps once I’m gone, giving them the relevant information they need while filtering out my involvement?
Memory isn’t some unchanging hardware engraved into the brain’s circuitry. It’s more like pliable software, restructuring itself each time it’s processed or called upon. This is something I’ve researched over the past year as I try and recover my memories from the life before this. Memories aren’t static events. They’re merely interpretations. Meaning and understanding can change wildly depending on many factors. It makes perfect sense that the host’s brain would deceive them, sort of how your brain attempts to make sense of weird dreams. The host’s brain tries to illuminate something that shouldn’t make sense. As if the brain is programmed to keep things logical and in order — a coping mechanism to prevent the person from going mad.
I ask a few more questions, keeping them broad so I don’t attract too much attention, but pointed enough to maybe gain a grasp of what’s happening.
I feel a sense of accomplishment, for the first time in years. While this is only a theory, it helps me to figure this out a bit more. I also feel a little less guilty for the significant events I’ve robbed from people — first kisses, a child’s first steps, achieving an important victory at work. It would seem that the hosts, based on Yvonne’s comments, at least, do remember their lost days.
Yvonne changes the subject after a while, asking, “So, what kind of dirt do you think Bova has on Pastor Williams?”
“I dunno, but that’s the only thing that makes sense, right?”
“Maybe they sent someone to threaten the pastor?”
“Does Bova work with people like that?”
Yvonne laughs. “Does a bear shit in the woods?”
I’m quiet for a moment, then ask, “So why are we writing this story? Aren’t you worried they might come after you, or the paper?”
“Let them try. I’ll show those cabrones they can’t intimidate me.”
“Cabrones?”
“Motherfuckers,” she says, smiling.
“Yvonne, you are one tough cabrona,” I say, grinning like an idiot who just learned his first Spanish curse word.
We work through dinnertime.
As I’m putting the finishing touches on the story, Yvonne is on the phone with Detective Ramirez, trying to find out if there’s been any word on Allie.
This reminds me of something I’d almost forgotten — Madam Monique. I look up her number, put it into my phone, and wait for a free moment when I can go outside and make the call. I’m not sure what I’ll say, or if I’ll even get a hold of her, but I have to try.
I finish what I hope will be the story’s final edit, print it out, and hand it to Yvonne. As she looks over my copy, I cut outside.
I call Madam Monique’s line and wait for an answer.
It cuts to voice mail.
I hang up.
I stand behind the Chronicle, pacing, wondering how long I should wait before calling back.
I make it five minutes.
Voicemail again.
I decide to leave a message. “Hello, this is Thomas Clarke of the Bay Cove Chronicle. We’re doing a feature piece on the best psychics on the West Coast, and we’d love to interview Madam Monique for our story.”
I leave a number to reach me and hope she calls tonight.
I head back into the office.
Yvonne is standing up, my story in her hand, “Brav-Fucking-O, sir! You nailed those bastards! It’s clear, concise, and explains to our readers why they need to care. Easily the best story we’ve ever run.”
“Really?” I must be blushing.
“You’re the real deal, Tommy. I have no doubt that I’m going to be seeing you on 60 Minutes someday, tearing the asshole out of some lying politician.”
“Thank you.” I sit down, a smile pushing my cheeks up high enough to hurt. I’m happy for Tommy, and Yvonne. They needed something good this week.
“We’re gonna piss a lot of people off,” I warn.
“Good, we need to stir shit up, and wake up the voters before this nonsense goes to council.”
I can tell that Yvonne is up for the fight. And while Tommy might have lost some steam following Lara’s death, Yvonne is using the tragedy to fuel her. She can’t do anything to bring her friend back or do much to find Allie, but she can battle the enemies she can see, and damn it if she’d let anyone stop her.
“Want to help me find some photos for the story?”
Usually, this would be the graphic designer’s job, but since Yvonne hasn’t replaced her yet, the task falls to us.
“Yeah.” I roll my chair next to hers as she searches our archives for photos of the council members and Peter Bova.
The faces are all familiar to me through Tommy’s memories. As I look at them it’s like seeing pictures of people I’ve only heard described in stories, maybe seen illustrations of. In person, they all look a bit different than Tommy’s memories.
“Usually, we run head shots in stories like this, but I want these to stand out,” Yvonne explains as she combs through search results with Bova, most of the results coming from candids snapped at various functions. Something jumps out as she skims.
“Go back!” I point to her screen.
“What?” Yvonne looks at me, alarmed.
She clicks back one shot.
“Not that one. Keep going.”
She flips back another shot, then again.
And there, I see the impossible. It’s from a black tie charity event three years ago, a bunch of well-dressed people standing together, chatting, drinks in hand. And there’s Gavin, standing right beside Peter Bova.
My heart races.
It’s him, but I can’t say anything, not without a lot of explaining.
“Who is that man to Peter Bova’s right?”
“Why?” she asks, still confused.
“He looks so familiar,” I say, hoping like hell that she will remember him in some fashion, hoping she’ll have some recognition from my memories.
She looks at a text file associated with the photo file’s name.
“The man to Peter Bova’s right is his son, Alexander Bova.”
Her eyes widen.
“What is it?” I ask.
“I think that’s him.”
“Who?”
“Gavin! The man who killed Lara!”
“Are you sure?” I ask, jumping up and down inside, screaming, Yes, yes, yes!
“I think so,” she says.
“We’ve got to call the detective,” I urge.
She reaches for her phone.
Suddenly a voice calls out, “Put down the phone!”
We both turn, surprised that someone sneaked through the back door, and is now standing here, pointing a gun at us.
The man is wearing a black mask, but I’d know Vinnie’s voice anywhere. He’s here to clean up the mess.
Yvonne slowly lowers the phone.
“What do you want? We don’t have money on hand.”
“I know,” Vinnie says. “I’m here to ask you to reconsider the story you’re running.”
“What story?” Yvonne asks.
“The one that Pastor Williams came to you with. You need to kill the story.”
Yvonne is too pissed to take his suggestion. “Excuse me. Who the hell are you to walk in here thinking you can tell us to kill a story?”
She reaches into her desk where she keeps her gun.
Vi
nnie fires two shots, one to the head, one to the chest. Yvonne slumps over.
I scream, “Vinnie, no!”
Vinnie’s gun is already on me. There is a moment of pause in his eyes, but his finger is already squeezing the trigger.
I hear him say, “Sorry,” and then there is nothing.
Chapter Seven
Friday, 5:00 a.m.
I wake up gasping for air, hearing the bleating alarm.
I hit the off button and sit bolt upright, flicking on the light next to the bed.
I’m in the body of Detective Hector Ramirez, alone in his bedroom. A picture of his ex-wife and twin girls is still on his nightstand, though she took the kids when she split two years ago.
They’re still the first thing he sees each morning — a reminder of what he sacrificed for the job, and a mental note to never let the bullshit get to him.
Unlike waking up inside the dazed and confused Thomas and Vinnie, I feel laser focused as Hector. It’s as if he’s been waiting for me.
One can only hope.
I get on the phone immediately to my sergeant, asking for an update on last night’s shootings. I tell him I saw something on the news, even though I’ve yet to turn on the TV.
“You want info on the shootings or the fire?” Sergeant Shields asks.
“Everything.”
“Two gunshots, one DOA, one airlifted to Bay Cove General.”
“There was a survivor? Who?”
“Yvonne Lopez, she’s in critical condition. Doctors don’t know if she’ll make it.”
I’m surprised she survived the two shots, particularly since one hit her in the head.
“What about the fire?”
“Whoever did the shooting torched the place. There’s nothing left of the Chronicle.”
“Jesus.” Anger courses through me. I want to find Vinnie and arrest him. But I have more important things to do right now — chief among them, find Alexander Bova and save Allie.
