I sit up to find the remote, but as I’m turning the TV off, a name in the scroll catches my eye: Vincent. Not the Vince that Peterson was referring to earlier, obviously, but it still reminds me that now I’ve got a name for the guy I immolated. It may not have been intentional, and he may have had it coming, but I still feel like I owe it to the guy to at least find out who he was. It’s a weird version of giving him a legacy, I guess.
I take my soda up to the computer and sit down to look up Vince, but I run into a problem — I’ve completely forgotten his last name. All I can think of is “D’Onofrio,” which is obviously not right. My brain, helpfully, refuses to move on from this. If my attempts to remember were a conversation, it would look like this:
What was his name? Vince D’Onofrio. No, not D’Onofrio. Something else, something kind of like that. Oh yeah. D’Onofrio. No! Something ELSE. Yeah, you’re right, sorry. Vince…D’Onofrio. Okay, just shut up.
Maybe you never get caught in loops like this; maybe it’s just me. If so, you’re lucky, because it’s super annoying when your thinking organ refuses to think.
Eventually, I give up on trying to remember the name and just start Googling things more or less randomly. I try pairing “Vince” with “robbery” “arrest,” “suspected robber” and so on. These all get plenty of results, but nothing local, and after a while I find myself just staring blankly at the screen, my hands resting on the keyboard.
On a whim, I type “49 Fahrenheit to Celsius.” Google tells me that it’s less than 10 degrees Celsius, so Doc Simmons was right in saying that you can’t just basically double it. I mean, obviously she was right, but here’s evidence. Even if it does seem to work out pretty well for the sort of temperatures associated with fires.
“Fires” gives me an idea, and I try searching for “car fire Sunset Vincent.” This brings up a local news article from a couple of weeks ago about an early-morning single-car fire on Sunset Avenue. The article identifies the driver of the car as “Vincent Amano,” to which my brain says, “Yeah, D’Onofrio.” Helpful, brain.
Now that I have a first and last name, it’s much easier to look up information on this guy. It all shares a theme — petty theft, larceny, auto theft, breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon, and so on. I click through, putting together a picture of a small-time hood who’s been at it for a couple of decades, spending as much time in jail as much as he does out of it.
Most of the articles are text-only news bulletins, though, and so it’s not until I find one with a picture that I get the real shock: I know this guy. I’ve seen his face.
It takes me a second to place him, but then I remember: he’s the guy I saw at Børger the day after the accident, the one who told me his friend had been in a car accident the same night I had. Recalling that conversation, suddenly everything he said takes on a much more sinister tone. He knew I was there! He knows where I work. He knows I killed his friend, who was probably one of the other guys who tried to rob Børger that night.
So the cops are wrong about the victim of the car fire. It wasn’t Vince. Vince was in the store the next day, checking to see if I recognized him without a mask on. And he’s had a couple of weeks to plan whatever his revenge is. He might have followed me home by now; he might know where I live. I need to let someone know now.
I fumble back through my phone’s call log looking for unsaved numbers from a few months ago. I find one and dial it, and am trying to figure out what I want to say when a clipped voice answers, “Who is this?”
I hang up the phone so fast that it’s like I’ve gained a new superpower. I’d recognize that voice anywhere; that was apparently my ex-boss Edgar’s number, and while I’m sure he would be delighted to learn that someone is trying to kill me again, he’s extremely unlikely to help. To help me, anyway. He might help them.
Checking the call log again, I find a second unsaved number, which I call and get the much more reassuring, “Peterson.”
“Officer Peterson! Hi, I have some — this is Dan. Dan Everton. I have some information for you about Vince D’Onofrio.”
“The actor?”
“Amano! Sorry. He’s not dead. I saw him in Børger.”
“Okay, when?” I hear a pen click.
“The night after the robbery. He came into the restaurant and talked to me. He mentioned that his friend had been driving his car the night before and had totaled it in an accident.”
“You didn’t think this was a strange thing for him to volunteer?”
“Well, he was just making conversa…tion…” Right, conversation about the fact that I’d been in a car accident the night before. A thing which Peterson had been obliquely trying to get me to admit earlier, and which I basically just did.
I press on. “I don’t know, it made sense in context, I guess. But now that I know it was him, I think maybe he was planning something? Or maybe threatening me?”
“Why would he be threatening you, Mr. Everton?”
Because I torched his car and his friend. “I — don’t know. The robbery, maybe? He knew what I looked like, obviously. If he was the robber, I mean.”
“Do you think Mr. Jefferson might also be in danger?”
Matt! I hadn’t even thought about him. I mean, he probably isn’t, not if Vince is looking for revenge for the car accident, but maybe. “He might be. I don’t know. I mean, the guy talked to me that night, and Matt was there too, but I don’t think he said anything to him. It was like he was sizing me up in particular.”
“Why do you suppose that is? Wasn’t it Mr. Jefferson who dialed 911 during the robbery?”
Yes, but when Vince’s associate hit me with his car, he told me that he thought I’d screwed things up for them somehow. That was before I set him on fire, you see. “Yeah, I don’t know. I don’t know what he’s thinking. Look, I’m just worried because he knows who I am, he knows where I work, and he’s had two weeks to figure out what he wants to do with that information. And if you guys think he’s already dead, then you’re not going to be looking for him if something does happen.”
“All right, Mr. Everton. I’m just asking questions. Do you have any reason to think he’s going to do something tonight?”
“What? No. I just found out who he is, is all. I don’t know anything besides what I told you.” Not on the precise topic of what Vince is planning and when, anyway.
“All right. Then, as it’s nearly midnight, I’m going to table this until tomorrow and deal with it in the morning.”
My eyes snap to the clock on my computer, which confirms that it is 11:52 PM. “Shoot! I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. Thank you for answering.”
“It’s fine, Mr. Everton. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Peterson hangs up, and I’m left wondering if he meant that to sound ominous, or if it’s just my guilty conscience putting that spin on it. Either way, I’m not going to sleep any time soon, so I text Brian.
“You up?”
My phone buzzes a minute later. “Yeah, at Beans.”
“Be there in 15.”
As I’m putting my shoes on, I send a followup text: “If I’m not there in 20, call the cops. I’m serious.”
I hustle out the door, hurrying into the night. It’s not even a mile to By the Beans, but there are a lot of shadows between here and there, and every one seems to be watching me tonight.
- Chapter Eleven -
Fear lends a spring to my step, and I make it to By the Beans in less than 12 minutes. Despite the post-midnight hour, there are still four occupied tables, mostly with people clicking away on their laptops. A television in the corner has the captions on, so that if people happen to look up from their laptops, they’ll still have a screen that they can focus their attention on. Brian sits alone at a tall table by the window away from the other patrons, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee for its warmth.
“You seriously stand out in short sleeves at this time of year, dude,” he greets me as I pull out the stool across from him.
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“Sorry, it’s hard to think about blending in when someone’s trying to kill me. Hang on, I’m gonna go grab a coffee.”
“Dramatic cliffhanger!” says Brian flippantly, but he looks concerned despite his tone. “I’d think that if someone was trying to kill me, that would be exactly when I would try to blend in, you know?”
“Then the first step would be getting a coffee while I’m in a coffeehouse. I’ll be back in a sec.”
The ordering process at Beans is pretty simple: you say “coffee” to the person at the counter, and they fill a cup for you while you’re swiping your card. There’s a whole menu posted on the wall behind them of different syrups and types of drinks, scones and cookies, but I appreciate that you can skip all that and just order with one word. Free refills, too.
I bring my coffee back to Brian and set it down on the table.
“Okay, Homefries,” he says. “You ready to do the big reveal now?”
I stare at my coffee for a second. “Yeah, um. So you know the hit-and-run I was in a couple of weeks ago?”
“Yeah? Is he coming back for you? Think he’s your nemesis?”
“Not, um, not exactly. I, ah, that guy, it wasn’t exactly a hit-and-run. I mean, he hit me, but he didn’t run. He stuck around and tried to hit me again, to kill me, and I, um, burned him. Dead.” That’s some pretty lousy sentence construction, but you try admitting that you murdered someone. It’s not an easy thing to say out loud.
“On purpose?” Brian asks, sounding shocked.
“No! No, it was an accident. I was trying to get away and I panicked. I swear I didn’t mean to.”
“Geez, man. So what, you think someone who knows him is coming after you?”
“Yeah, I’m sure of it. He’s one of the guys who tried to rob Børger. One of the other robbers showed up, a guy named Vince, and sort of threatened me. Only I didn’t know it at the time. And now I think he might just be waiting for the right chance to come after me. And pyrokinesis isn’t really designed for stopping people without killing them.”
“Yup,” says Brian after a minute. “Sucks to be you.”
“Thanks, very helpful.”
“So why aren’t you telling the police about this? Seems like the sort of thing they’re for, you know?”
“I sort of did! I talked to that one guy, Officer Peterson. But I…I killed a guy, man. That’s hard to explain.”
“They didn’t haul you in over those sasquatch mutants a few months back. It was self-defense. They’re not gonna lock you up for defending yourself.”
“Okay, A: thank you very much for bringing that back up. B: the fact that I’ve killed people before is probably not actually going to be a point in my favor here.”
Brian snorts. “Yeah, all right.”
“I mean, the guy was no saint. He was in on that string of robberies that was going on. So maybe they’d buy that I was afraid for my life. But it’s pretty hard to set a car on fire in self-defense.”
“Not for you, man!”
“Yeah, but I’m not exactly going to admit that, am I? ‘Yes, officer, when the hoodlum revved his engine at me, I was so startled that I lit his car on fire with my mind! Oh, no thank you, I’m quite warm and don’t need a jacket, and why do the sleeves on this one tie in the back, anyway?'”
Brian laughs, then says, “But still, you should be able to report the other one, the one who threatened you, to the police. Especially if they know he was in on those robberies, they should be pretty willing to believe you. You don’t even have to tell them why.”
“Yeah, I tried that with Peterson, but he connected the dots pretty quickly. Anyway, they don’t know that this guy was involved in all of the robberies; they’ve only got prints for the one at Børger, since they dropped their weapons there. I only know because the dude who was trying to run me over told me about it. So I can’t explain my source without telling them the whole thing.”
Brian’s looking past me, over my right shoulder. “You might wanna consider just coming clean, dude. If you’re right about this guy being involved in the robberies, looks like he’s escalating.”
For a moment, I think that maybe Vince has followed me here and is making his move, but Brian seems way too calm for that, so I turn to see what he’s talking about. The TV in the corner is showing the local news heads, and the closed captions scrolling past read, “fifth in the area. As you saw, these five men are well-coordinated and determined.”
The screen cuts to a shot from a security camera showing five men, wearing ski masks and wielding pipes, bursting into an office or small bank of some sort. They fan out immediately, three of them advancing on the people behind the counter while the other two begin clubbing the security guard next to the door before he can even get out of his chair.
Cowed, the workers behind the counter begin putting money into bags that the robbers tossed them. The whole thing looks very familiar; it’s what easily could have happened to me and Matt at Børger. This is clearly Vince and his team.
The TV switches to a still picture of a man in his 60s smiling broadly, while the captions read, “Charles Rodriguez remains in critical condition after this assault. Police are seeking any information on the identities of the attackers.”
The captions are partially covering up the banner at the bottom of the screen, but it’s a familiar one: it’s the Crime Stoppers name and number, assuring people that they can remain anonymous but still help the police bring criminals to justice.
“Man, if you know he’s involved, you’ve got to tell the police,” says Brian. “They just about beat that guy at the Cash4All to death earlier tonight. You can’t let this go on.”
He’s right, and I know it. “All right. I’ll do the Crime Stoppers thing. Then I can say everything without having to try to lie to Peterson anymore.”
“Ooh, plus you could be eligible for up to a thousand dollar cash reward!” says Brian, widening his eyes and mocking the Crime Stoppers commercial. “Coffee’s on you if you get that.”
“Coffee’s gonna be on you if you don’t keep your voice down,” I say, pretending to shove his coffee cup. “I’m not sure if you know how anonymity works, but generally speaking, shouting in a public place about how someone plans to be anonymous is not it.”
“Maybe they’ll put you in the witness protection program!” Brian goes on, ignoring me.
“Maybe they’ll put you in the WITLESS protection program,” I retort, grinning.
Crime Stoppers, it turns out, has a website. This shouldn’t surprise me, but somehow it does. I fill out their form on my phone, reporting all of the details I can remember about Vince, then write down the conversation where his partner admitted to robbing the gas station and beating the cashier. At the bottom, a dropdown menu asks me where I heard about their site, and one of the options is “playing cards,” so I pick that.
“Playing cards?” asks Brian, reading over my shoulder.
“Yeah, I figure I’m gonna make some guy’s day with that one. This comes in, and he goes, ‘I TOLD you! I told you making Crime Stoppers playing cards was gonna work out!’ And the rest of the department probably ignores him, but he feels vindicated.”
“You live a weird internal fantasy life, man,” says Brian.
“Dude, I’m pyrokinetic and robbers are plotting to kill me. I live a weird external fantasy life,” I say, hitting “submit.” Brian just laughs.
I feel a thousand times better than I did before coming out to Beans. Vince may be expanding his team and planning to come after me, but I’m making moves of my own now, not just waiting for things to happen. It feels good to be ahead of the curve for a little while.
I’m still paranoid on the walk home, though. Last time I was relaxing on a walk after a night of high tension, Vince’s friend hit me with his car. I try not to fall for the exact same trick twice.
As it turns out, though, the only cars I see are ones driven normally by non-psychopaths, and so it is a pleasant walk home. I text Bria
n with “Home and not dead,” just in case he was wondering, but then head to bed without waiting for a response.
- Chapter Twelve -
Midnight caffeine infusions always seem like a good idea at the time, but somehow that rarely turns out to be the case. I’m on time to work the next day, but it’s a near thing, and my morning hygiene consists of slapping myself in the face with a wet washcloth in an attempt to both wake up and clean up at the same time. Fortunately, Matt’s on duty today and not B-Rock, so at least I don’t have to deal with passive-aggressive comments. I look fine, anyway — certainly better than I did after being hit by the car.
Although I suppose it’s hard to write someone up for looking unprofessional if the problem is that they were in a hit-and-run. I bet Edgar would have done it, though. Or at least given me a verbal warning not to let it happen again.
Matt, on the other hand, smiles with what appears to be genuine friendliness and says, “Looks like you had a late night!”
“Yeah, a little bit,” I say, then remember that this is something that at least potentially concerns him. “Oh! Uh, I think maybe one of the robbers from the other night was in here the other day? Like, scoping the place out or something. He talked to me, but I didn’t know it was him, and I don’t know what he wanted.”
Matt nods. “One of the officers called me this morning and said that you’d spoken to him. He sent me a picture in case I’d seen him hanging around or following me, but I’m glad to say that he didn’t look familiar, so I don’t think he’s out for revenge.”
Easy for you to say, I think. Some of my disbelief must show on my face, because Matt continues, “Still, he said that they’d be bringing him in today, since they’ve apparently got his prints on the gun, so it’s a good thing you spotted him. I wonder why they didn’t bring him in earlier?”
“Apparently they thought he was dead in a car wreck?”
“Shouldn’t they have dental records to confirm that sort of thing?” asks Matt.
The Experiment (Book 2): Making Friends Page 7
