“You won’t get in trouble, will you?”
Dale Wilson shook Barnes’s head.
“Good.” She faced forward in her seat. “There’s a twenty-four-hour place just up the street. They do apple pie with a slice of American cheese melted on it. You’re buying.”
Barnes stared, blinked.
She turned to him again. “Step on it, Vic Mackey.”
12
They got a booth along the near wall of the busy diner. The din was filled with voices and laughter, silverware clinking against plates, glasses singing with ice. The rain outside battered the plate glass windows.
“Vic Mackey?” Barnes said. He rubbed a hand over his bald head.
“You never watched The Shield?”
“Sure, but . . .”
“I thought Vic was sexy.”
“You’re damn right he was.”
That wonderful smile came to her face, the one that made him hurt.
The waitress brought their coffee. She said, “Your pies are in the salamander, out in a jiff,” and drifted away.
They sat in silence. Jessica seemed comfortable in it. She seemed to enjoy teasing out his thoughts by saying nothing. It was the same technique the police used in the interrogation room.
Barnes said, “I wonder why they call it a salamander?”
“The word salamander,” Jessica said, “in classical Greek, translates to ‘fire animal.’”
“First Spanish, now Greek—what’s your encore?”
“Would you believe break dancing?”
“Nope.”
“Yeah, not so much.”
Barnes was weary. A drunken morning and virtually no sleep had left him running on fumes. Still, he would choose no other place to be. Thoughts of Calavera and the machine were momentarily buried. He felt like a man taking in huge gulps of clean air after nearly drowning.
“Listen,” Jessica said. “I want you to tell me something you’ve never told anyone before.”
“You mean like confession?”
“Not necessarily. It can be anything, so long as you’ve never said it before. Here. I’ll go first.” She looked at him seriously. “Your ears are amazing.”
Barnes chuckled.
“Your turn,” she said.
“Your ears are amazing, too.”
“Un-uh. It has to be completely original.”
“Okay,” he said. He matched her serious stare. “I don’t like Doritos.”
“You communist!”
“Your turn,” Barnes said.
“No. Hold on. You don’t like Doritos? Is it blue you don’t like or red?”
“Either.”
“Go back to your homeland, Comrade.” She shook her head. “Ben Franklin is turning in his grave. You’re going to be attacked by bald eagles later. Don’t expect me to help.”
He smirked. “Your turn.”
“I think the Grand Canyon is boring.”
“And I’m the communist?”
“You know they have a book you can buy at the gift shop there, and it’s just a list of people who have died at the Grand Canyon.”
“Come on.”
“It’s something like a thousand people. I nearly made the list myself.”
“You considered jumping?”
“Yep, from boredom. The Badlands are worse, though. It’s like, ‘Hey, scorching-hot alien landscape. Want to hang out?’ Nope. Your turn.”
The pies came before Barnes could play again. Each was covered with an orange-yellow curtain of cheese, broiled to a blackened and crispy top. Jessica clapped her hands lightly before her face. “Yay.”
“Damn, that looks good.” Chunk Philips.
“You’ll never get whipped cream again,” Jessica said.
Barnes tried a bite. “Wow.”
“See?”
They finished their pies and sipped coffee. The caffeine had little effect on Barnes. His eyelids were heavy. He blinked and shook his head.
“I’ve kept you out too late,” she said.
“Not at all.” His shoulders sagged. He yawned. “It’s just this case.”
“It’s the PA Man, isn’t it?”
The PA Man. Pickax Man. It was the media term for Calavera, something Jeremiah Holston had coined. They’d successfully managed to keep the killer’s poems and mask description away from Holston and the rest of the press, but his killing method had been leaked. “Yeah,” Barnes said, “it’s him.”
“I thought he came and went with the moon. Didn’t he strike just a few days ago?”
“Don’t believe what you read, particularly from the Flame. He’s killed on back-to-back nights, sometimes with weeks in between, and once he took six months off.”
“So there’s no pattern?”
“There’s a pattern,” Barnes said. His speech felt slow and forced. His eyes were down to slits. He saw her face through eyelashes. “It’s just a question of finding it.”
“You’re exhausted. We should get you home.”
The sound of her voice opened his eyes. He was unaware that they’d closed. “I’m not very good company right now. I . . .” His eyes were closing again.
13
Barnes woke up on a couch. He checked his watch: 11:30 a.m. He sprang to his feet and banged his knee on a coffee table he didn’t own. He was in an apartment, not his home. The air smelled of freshly cut flowers and brewed tea. He looked around to find hardwood floors, IKEA furniture, a small kitchen. His shoes were set together under the kitchen table, his jacket and holster over the back of a chair. He went over to find a note on the counter.
Dear John,
Ha! Just kidding. This is not that kind of note. I’d still be there if I didn’t have to work. Anyway, I didn’t mean to bore you to sleep! There’s coffee in the cupboard if you feel like it. The door will lock itself when you leave, so no worries.
Jessica
P.S. Nothing happened, but don’t kid yourself—you wish it had!
Barnes smiled. He slipped on his shoes, holster, and jacket. He surveyed the apartment again, found which door led to the bathroom and which led to the bedroom. He peeked inside at her bed. A queen mattress. He was tempted to go in and explore, but the thought of invading her privacy sent a wave of nausea through him. He was glad for it. He left the apartment and started down the interior steps of her building. The rest had served him well. He felt vital, like a man chiseled from marble. The only issue was his growling stomach. He checked his phone. Five new messages. He sifted through them as he walked, deleting the hang-ups and telemarketer voice mails.
He came to a voice mail from Captain Darrow. “I said get some rest, not take a day off.”
Franklin left a voice mail, too. “Where you at? If you’re pissed about yesterday, get over it. Turns out Wilson got online and looked up a Spanish-to-English translator. He put in demasado, demasido, whatever, and translated it. I’m at the station. I’ve got something else, too. Get in here.”
Barnes reached the outer apartment door to find it was raining again. He walked happily across the street to his car, unconcerned with the cold drops on his shoulders and head. He hopped into the vehicle and banged his head on the door frame, his knee on the steering wheel. Jessica must have driven them home from the diner last night. Jesus, he’d gone down hard. Surely she hadn’t actually carried him; he must’ve been functional enough for her to lead him around. He reset the seat, the steering wheel, and adjusted the mirrors, warmed by the idea of her driving his car. He started the car, threw on the wipers, and was about to pull out when his phone chirped. A text message from an unknown number:
So I met this cute guy last night. I’m hoping he might ask me out . . .
Barnes smiled. He typed a reply. I hear he’s not just cute, but handsome. Vic Mackey handsome, even.
He threw his phone on the passenger seat and drove. He made it two blocks before he checked his phone for her reply.
Nothing.
He stopped at a coffee shop and went inside, intention
ally leaving his phone in the car so he wouldn’t check it a hundred times while standing in line. He got an extra-large coffee and an old-fashioned doughnut, which he wolfed down before arriving back at the vehicle. As he unlocked the door, he peeked at the phone through the rain-streaked glass.
No reply.
He got in, picked up the phone, and opened it. Maybe the network was down?
Nope.
“Relax.” A mother’s voice.
“Shhh.”
He drove to the station. Before he could get out of his car, the passenger door opened. Jeremiah Holston stuck his head in.
“What do you want, Holston?”
“My interview.”
“Why don’t you pull some munky off the street? He’ll give you as much as I can.”
“Unreliable source,” Holston said. “Even the Flame has standards. Besides, most munkies aren’t getting themselves killed every time they go on the machine.”
Barnes sighed. He nodded at the passenger seat, letting Holston know he could hop in. Holston adjusted the seat as far back as it would go, then tilted it back to pimp level. He got in. The car filled up with his hamburger scent.
“You got five minutes.”
“It’s going to take longer than that.”
“Then you’ll get multiple sessions. Clock’s ticking.”
Holston flipped open his notepad. “When you’re using the machine, are you aware of yourself?”
“Come on, this is common knowledge, man.”
“Mileage varies a little, right? Call it establishing a foundation about your experience. Are you absolutely, one hundred percent the victim, or are you still somewhat aware that you’re you?”
Barnes sipped his coffee. “If we’re talking percentages, I’m ninety-five percent them, five percent me . . . but I can fight for more if I have to. A mind-over-matter sort of thing.”
“Don’t use percentages in court.” The attorney. “They’ll pin you down with them.”
“That falls in line with what most munkies say,” Holston said while scribbling on his notepad.
“What can I tell you that they can’t?”
Holston folded his notepad closed. “Off the record?”
“Whatever.”
“The main difference between them and you is you don’t want to hook into the machine.”
“Yes, he does.” The crack addict’s voice.
“I’ve interviewed a thousand munkies,” Holston continued, “and I could interview a thousand more, but they all say the same thing. They can’t get enough.”
“I can. I do.”
“And that’s what makes you a story.” Holston reopened his notepad.
“Let’s get something straight,” Barnes said. He turned toward the reporter. “I don’t like you. Now, when most people say they don’t like someone, they mean that they hate them. That’s not what I mean. I simply mean that I don’t prefer you or your company. It doesn’t mean I’ll be dishonest with you. You want to know about the machine? Ask your questions. I’ll answer them honestly until I start hating you. If that happens, you’ll know.”
Holston said, “Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
“How long do the effects linger?”
“Sometimes a few hours, sometimes a day or two. It depends on how long I’m with them. That’s common, right?”
“Yeah, but . . .”
“But what? I get it. I’m only a story if I’m special. Well, I’m not a story, then. The machine’s the machine, for a munky or for me. The only difference is I’m not hooked.”
“There’s another difference,” Holston said. He held Barnes’s gaze. “You’re forced to die as someone else, and it’s your job. You can’t say no. Some sickos might want to experience a suicide, but only convicted murderers are forced to experience being murdered. The jury’s still out on the lasting effects of that.”
“I’m not forced,” Barnes said. “It’s my choice.”
“Is it?”
“Time’s up.”
The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The precinct seemed clean and foreign to the well-rested Barnes as he approached it. He thought of Rip Van Winkle coming down from the mountains. He smelled disinfectant as he moved through the front doors. Two munkies were slouched on a bench near the door—a man and a woman, both sporting sagging Mohawks and bloody knuckles and knees. They were handcuffed to each other and again to the bench, soaked from the rain. There’d be a black-market machine back at their home, maybe an empty bottle of serum, the trigger for whatever crime they’d tried to commit in their sleep-deprived state. Most likely a robbery gone wrong. As Barnes passed, the woman lazily reached out to him but missed. Her hand fell back into her lap. Her bloodshot eyes slowly blinked. Her lips were crusty with dead skin.
Franklin was at his desk.
Barnes said, “What do you have?”
“Well, I’ll be humped,” Franklin said. He leaned back in his chair and threw his big hands behind his head. “You look just like a summer day.”
“Eat a dick,” Barnes said, though he couldn’t suppress his smile. He plopped down in his own chair and leaned back to match Franklin’s eye level.
“You musta got laid or something,” Franklin said.
“What. Do. You. Have?”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Barnes went deadpan.
Franklin sat upright. “You get my voice mail?”
“Yep.”
“Then you know Wilson translated the words.”
“Yep.”
“The website he visited before that was a cemetery. Turns out he’s a widower. Andrea was his second wife. He married his high school sweetheart after they found out she had cancer. Sentimental thing and all that. Marriage lasted six months before she died.”
“Jesus.”
“I checked Wilson’s phone records. Found out he called the cemetery, too. Didn’t get through to anyone, though. Might have left them a voice mail. I’m thinking he must have visited recently or was planning to.”
“First wife buried there?”
“Sure is. Want to know who else is buried there?”
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“Shoot, then.”
“All of them.”
Barnes sat up in his chair, cocked his head. “All of who?”
“All of Calavera’s vics have at least one relative buried there. A grandma, a sibling, whatever. I called over there this morning”—he checked his notepad—“talked with a Mrs. Bruckheimer. Had her run down the list. Found all eight.”
“We’ve got twelve victims, not eight.”
“Count families as one. Eight crime scenes.”
“Which cemetery?”
“Parkview Memorial.”
The clean, rested feeling was replaced with dread. Ricky was buried at Parkview Memorial.
14
It’d been over ten years since Barnes had been to his brother’s grave. He’d last gone to see him when he was twenty-two, precisely ten years to the day after Ricky died. Barnes hadn’t mustered the courage to go back since. On the twenty-year anniversary last month, he’d been too caught up in the Calavera case.
“What’s up?” Franklin said. They were driving to the cemetery, Franklin behind the wheel. He smirked. “You see dead people?”
Barnes assumed Franklin didn’t know his story. Save for his parents and maybe Captain Darrow, no one did. I’m responsible for my younger brother’s death wasn’t exactly polite party conversation. Truth told, it wasn’t any kind of conversation for Detective John Barnes. “I just don’t like cemeteries.”
“Who does?” The waitress.
“Shhh.”
They pulled up to the cemetery gate, which was an impressive archway of stone and hanging iron lanterns. The gravel drive forked after they passed under the archway. Franklin stayed on the right-hand path.
A dozen different voices sounded off in Barnes’s head—shouting, whispering, crying. Their words twisted around one
another like brambles in his mind. “Why?” “No.” “Please.” “What?” “Don’t.” “Shouldn’t have.” “Understand?”
“Shhh. Shhh. Shhh.”
Barnes wished for bourbon. His hands shook. He stuffed them into his armpits beneath his jacket.
Franklin stopped the car where the road forked again. To the left was the memorial center and crematorium. Through past experience Barnes knew the building also served as the cemetery office and a place to receive visitors. Beyond the memorial center there was a second, larger building. Maybe a storage facility for the grave-digging backhoes, lawn equipment, and groundskeeper’s tools. The grounds were well manicured. All the recently fallen leaves were gone. After the medieval gate, the cemetery was a surprisingly bright and vibrant place. The message was clear—anything dead here is belowground, not above.
“So what’s this guy doing, just picking random names off headstones?” Franklin said.
“No way it’s coincidence,” Barnes said.
“Worse odds than Lotto.”
Barnes nodded.
Franklin looked out the window toward the memorial center. “He’s preaching, you know that?”
“The poems tell us that, yeah.”
“No. Not the poems. I mean, they’re part of it, sure, but those are for us. He’s preaching with what he’s doing.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Something Watkins said before he went off. ‘I can see him now,’ he said. ‘I understand his work.’ I thought he’d figured out some clue. So, despite the look in his eyes, I trusted his judgment. I followed him into that safe house, feeling like something was up but telling myself my boy was just having a bad day.”
“Dawson?”
Franklin nodded.
Barnes recalled the incident. Tom Watkins, Franklin’s previous partner, had been the secondary detective on the case before Barnes was brought in. He’d been the one on the machine, the one suffering its punishment. On the day he went Watkins, he and Franklin were going back to talk with one Gerald Dawson—the only victim to have survived an encounter with Calavera—to see whether he recalled anything new, or so Watkins had led Franklin to believe.
Dawson’s showdown with Calavera hadn’t been a cakewalk; he’d taken a pickax through the chest, just above the heart and straight through his back without clipping a vital organ. He’d been double-lucky—the blade had busted the back off the wooden chair to which he was strapped. His bindings came off as the chair collapsed. Suddenly Dawson found himself running down the street, screaming for help with a pickax sticking out of him. Calavera hadn’t bothered to chase, nor had he left a poem at the scene.
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