by Sean Platt
I feel violated in every sense of the word, unable to move, unable to stop whatever he’s about to do.
He holds his stare, head tilted as if admiring his handiwork. Or maybe it’s something else.
I feel like he’s looking right past Lara and somehow into my eyes.
“You’re not her,” he says. “Who are you?”
I don’t know if this is crazy talk or if he can actually see me.
I start to ask him what he means, when he suddenly snaps.
“Stop staring at me!” he screams, as if he’s talking directly to me — that he can see me in here, looking back at him.
He looks down at his blood-covered blade, then back at us, his face twisting from a calm facade to one of utter, uncontrollable rage.
“I said stop staring at me!”
He thrusts the knife forward, straight into our eyes.
The last thing I hear is him turning to Allie on the floor.
“Well, don’t you look like a lot of fun,” he says.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2
Sunday
I’m violently gasping for air as I wake, an urgency burning through my lungs.
A hand touches me in the dark. I scream, pushing myself away, falling off the bed, bumping my head into the wall.
A light flicks on, and a pudgy dark-haired man in his early forties rushes to me.
“Baby, are you okay?”
Tony.
My host’s mind fills in the name. He looks scared as he tried to help me up.
Tony. Why does he look so familiar?
I realize it’s Tony, Yvonne’s boyfriend.
Which means I’m in Yvonne’s body.
All at once, I remember everything that happened to me — to Lara — yesterday.
This is significant.
I’ve never woken in hosts who knew one another before. I’ve also never remembered so much of a prior day. I have two sets of experiences when occupying a body: the host’s and my own. For instance, having dinner with my host’s family is the host’s memories. I’ll often forget their memories, as if I’m somehow returning them to their rightful owner before leaving the body. But then I have what I call my personal memories, things I’m doing on my own. This could be reading a book, seeing a TV show, or something that I initiate, and doesn’t involve anyone else. These memories stay with me longer, which is good because I’m not sure how I’d exist with no sense of self. And it’s how I can track my lost days — 357 so far.
Hosts’ memories are usually washed away when I wake up, with the new host’s memories supplanting the old ones. But today, Lara’s memories are still my companion.
Tony is still looking at me nervously as he helps me stand.
I look at the clock.
7:12 a.m.
I remember the last thing I heard before Lara’s life was snuffed out — the sound of Allie’s scream.
I have to get to Lara’s!
I hop out of bed, letting Yvonne’s instincts drive me to the closet.
“What are you doing?” Tony asks.
“Gotta go to work.”
“Work? You’re off today.”
“I forgot something I need to take care of,” I tell him, surprised how fast the lie leaves my lips.
“Are you serious?”
I’m not sure why it’s such a big deal, but judging from the hurt in Tony’s voice it is. Is this something Yvonne does a lot, letting her work get in the way of their personal life? Or maybe today is a special day. Whatever the case, Yvonne’s mind isn’t filling in the gaps, and I don’t have time for a conversation that might soothe Tony’s injured ego. Whatever the fallout, I’ll fix it later. Right now, I need to get dressed.
I throw on an oversized charcoal coat, grab Yvonne’s phone and purse, then head out the door.
I find Yvonne’s red Jeep, jump in, and squeal out of the parking garage.
For a moment, I’m not sure I’ll remember where Lara lives, particularly in relation to Yvonne’s apartment. Fortunately, her memories fill in the blanks, and I find myself at Lara’s place in fifteen minutes.
Lara’s apartment building, a ten-story structure in a quiet subdivision, looks like it probably would on any given Sunday morning. There are a few people walking their dogs, but for the most part the neighborhood is still in bed, or maybe making coffee.
I park, then race into the building.
Lara lives on the seventh floor. I debate which would be faster, taking the stairs or waiting for the elevator.
The elevator door dings open. A woman and four kids pour out in a clamor. Elevator it is.
As the elevator ascends, my heart is racing.
It occurs to me that I flew here without any plan. What will I do if the killer is still in Lara’s apartment? Am I prepared to deal with Gavin? I have no idea what sort of fighting skills my host has. Yvonne is short, slightly out of shape, and despite her bold personality, she doesn’t strike me as a fierce fighter. By going to Lara’s apartment am I adding another body to his list of victims?
Yvonne surprises me with a blast of memory.
An ex-boyfriend named Hector. Four years ago, his possessiveness finally crossed the line. Despite a restraining order, he kept coming around and after a particularly nasty exchange, pushed her through a plate glass window. Yvonne wound up spending a month recovering in the hospital. After that, she realized that getting a gun was the only way to ensure her safety. That and going to the shooting range nearly every week and learning to use it.
I reach into her purse, hand closing around the pistol.
I thank Yvonne for being a badass. The elevator door dings open.
I head to Lara’s apartment, gun in hand, safety off, ready.
I approach the closed door, not sure exactly what to do next. Do I knock? Do I kick down the door? I reach out, turn the knob.
It twists open.
My heart is racing as I step over the threshold into the apartment, gun drawn.
The gun in hand feels natural thanks to Yvonne’s muscle memory, but I’m not nearly as experienced. I vaguely recall using guns as other people, but don’t think I’ve ever shot anyone. The thought of doing so, even to stop a killer, is turning my stomach.
My hand shakes as my mind circles a pair of concerns: either I’ll see movement and pull the trigger on someone I shouldn’t, or my hesitation to shoot the first thing I see will cost me if Gavin is in here, waiting with a gun of his own.
I push the fears from my mind and focus on the room.
The kitchen is to the right. As I look at the fridge, I get a flash of Gavin shoving me — Lara — against it.
The living room ahead looks more or less as it did before yesterday’s invasion. The bedroom door is on the far side of the living room, closed.
There is where Lara’s body likely waits.
But will I find another? Did the monster murder Allie, too?
I move toward the door. A convergence of feelings hits me — what Allie meant to both Lara and Yvonne, and how they thought of her as a friend, almost like a little sister. It only adds to my waiting dread.
Gun in hand, I reach out, turn the doorknob, and push the door open.
My breath catches as I see Lara’s body sprawled on the bed, nude, eyes gouged out, peppered wounds up and down her body as if Gavin had stabbed her hundreds of times in his violent rage.
But Allie isn’t here.
The smell of fluids is overwhelming: the metallic scent of blood, shit from opened bowels, and the dominant stench of piss reeking above it all.
I turn away, fighting the rising vomit in my throat.
Too late.
It comes out, adding to the room’s horrible stench.
I stagger toward the bathroom, both to freshen up and see if Allie’s inside.
No sign of her here, either.
I set the gun on the counter, then spit into the sink. I turn on the faucet and lean forward to rinse my mouth out. As I stand back up, I catch a glimpse
of a stranger in the mirror.
I grab the gun and spin around, but I’m alone.
Only then do I realize the stranger is Yvonne’s reflection.
Despite her corpse on the bed, I’m still thinking of myself as Lara, which isn’t how this usually works. Old identities rarely linger into a new host.
I can’t get bogged down in what this means, though. I have to find out what happened to Allie. I grab the gun and inspect the apartment, finding neither her nor any sign of what might have happened. If he killed her too, I think he would’ve left her. But if Allie escaped, she certainly would’ve called the sheriff’s office by now. With no deputies or caution tape here, I doubt she got away.
My only other option is ugly, and I can’t consider it yet.
I race out of the apartment and down the hall to Allie’s, tucking the gun into my coat pocket.
I knock on the door, louder and more urgently than I intend to.
No answer.
Maybe her mom found Allie in the hallway, picked her up, drove her to the hospital? It’s at least one possibility with a glimmer of hope.
I knock again.
A surly-sounding woman says, “Hold yer horses!”
The sound of locks sliding.
The door opens, though a security chain holds it from opening all the way.
Allie’s mother, a bleach blonde with dark roots, bedhead, and a body worn ragged from years of drinking, answers. “Yeah?”
“Is Allie home?”
“Who’s asking?” She eyeballs me through the crack in the doorway.
I don’t have time to think of an answer that she won’t find suspicious. So I blurt the truth.
“Your daughter may be in danger. Is she home?”
Her mother’s eyes widen, and her surliness is replaced by a less guarded emotion — fear.
“Hold on,” she says, closing the door, likely going to check.
It saddens me, but doesn’t altogether surprise me, that her mother doesn’t even know if her teenage daughter is home.
I hear the chain slide off. The door opens all the way.
“No, she’s not home. What’s this about?”
“There’s no note or anything?”
“My daughter doesn’t leave notes. What’s going on?”
And now I have to face the ugly possibility head-on.
“I think someone may have taken your daughter.”
**
An hour later, I feel like I’m stuck in a nightmare of fading time as a detective questions me in a small interrogation room at the sheriff’s office.
Of course, I can’t tell him the truth.
Yes, I was in Lara’s body when he murdered her.
Yes, I’m a Jumper. I’m in a different person every day or so.
What? You’d like to escort me to the psychiatric wing for an evaluation? Whatever for?
I have to invent a lie that will hold up — and give them enough details to maybe find this bastard.
I offer every bit of information I can, down to Gavin’s name and description, to the best of my memory. Details feel fuzzy when I try to recall his specific features. Was his nose wide or thin? Was his chin pointed or round? How long was his hair? I was so focused on his eyes — black, familiar, and cold — that the rest of him is a blur. But I give my best approximation to the sketch artist capturing details.
When asked how I know what he looked like, or how I know he was the one who did this to Lara, I have to lie, saying I went to her apartment after hearing nothing about her date. I said that she’d normally call me to let me know if things were going well, or horribly.
When I didn’t hear from her, I stopped in. She answered the door, and they were in the kitchen talking. Lara seemed uncomfortable, but nothing that seemed — at the time — too alarming. I figured she was nervous finally meeting a guy she’d been talking to for so long.
I spin this web of lies, knowing I’m screwing Yvonne once she returns to her body. From what little I know of police investigations, and subsequent trials, this is only Yvonne’s first round of questions. What happens when I’m not here and our answers don’t match? Will that turn her into a suspect? Will it make the case against Gavin, assuming they can catch him, fall apart?
As a Jumper, the number of variables beyond my control can feel paralyzing. I’ll often choose to do nothing for fear of whatever chain of events in my host’s life I might inadvertently set into motion. But this time nothing isn’t an option.
The deputies need to find Allie, assuming Gavin hasn’t killed her.
When Detective Ramirez asks how I knew Allie was even at the house, I tell him that she was there earlier, and would likely be spending the night since her mother was a drunk.
“You’re saying this girl would spend the night even though Lara had brought a date home?” Ramirez asks. “That doesn’t seem a bit odd to you?”
“Lara was a kind person. She wouldn’t turn Allie away just because she had a date. If anything, she’d probably include her. Maybe the three of them would watch a movie or something, then Lara would send Gavin home with a peck on the cheek.”
I don’t know if my story is holding water. It’s tough to get a bead on Ramirez. He’s in his early fifties, has a buzz-cut which suggests military service, and looks like he’s spent a lifetime interviewing liars.
I can’t help but feel like he’s seeing right through me.
As the paper’s editor, Yvonne has history with Ramirez and several other officers. Some respect and like her; others dislike Yvonne for her editorials which are often critical of the current sheriff’s administration. Ramirez has always been a straight shooter, never getting involved in politics. He respects Yvonne. Which is good, as it’s probably the only thing keeping him from seeing through my lies.
After a while, the sketch artist shows me her drawing of the suspect. I think it looks like him, I say. Judging from her frown, she’s not happy with my uncertainty. I’m afraid they might not use the sketch, so I insist that it looks like him. I say I’m almost positive, even though I’m more like 40 percent certain.
His eyes are dead accurate.
The sketch artist leaves. Detective Ramirez thanks me, and says he’ll be in touch. He gets up to escort me out of the interview room.
“Wait,” I say, “what are the odds of finding Allie alive?”
“I dunno,” he says, shaking his head. “Our deputies are out now doing their best.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Call me if you think of anything else that might help. Also, get with Celine. She’ll give you a press release you can put on your website.”
Celine is Sheriff Ben Dixon’s spokeswoman, a glorified flack who hates Yvonne because she never swallows the sheriff’s official bullshit. Yvonne presses her for information, unlike the daily paper, which spends half its editorial ink licking local politico ass. Memories are filling in the blanks: just how much Yvonne distrusts the sheriff department’s ability to close this case — to find Allie alive.
I sigh. Tears sting my eyes. If I leave now, no one will ever find Gavin. “There has to be something else.”
“Listen, I know this is hard on you. You lost Lara, and Allie might be in danger, too. I get it. But we’ve got our best people on it.”
Snippets of memories flood into the front of my brain.
This isn’t the first unsolved murder this year. There have been two others, both women. Both of them mutilated. The sheriff’s office had been downplaying a serial killer, which is one of the things the paper had been pressing Dixon on for some time.
I look at Ramirez. “Do you think this is related to the other unsolved murders?”
“Don’t go there.”
“Why?” I ask, standing between him and the exit. Now he’s the one being questioned.
“Listen, Yvonne. I’m not saying anything on record. You want quotes, go to Celine.”
“Come on, Hector,” I say, using his first name to sway him.
He smiles, shakes his head, and presses past me to the doorway. “We’re doing our best. That’s all you’re getting outta me.”
I storm out of the room, pissed, but I keep my anger inside. Ramirez is doing his job. He’s one of the good guys, and I’m sure whatever part of the case he’s involved in, he’ll do his best to get Allie back. Still, I wish there was something I could do.
I had the bastard, Gavin, right there in front of me. I could’ve stopped him before he killed Lara. Before he did God only knows what to Allie. I should have stopped him. Now Lara is dead, and Allie’s about to join her, or already there.
I remember his glare, the hate in his gaze as he plunged the knife into Lara’s eyes. So much hate, and for what? What would lead a person to commit such violence upon another?
I’ve been in a few hundred people now, many of them going through terrible shit, abuse from a loved one, drug addiction, depression. It’s never easy to deal with. I know there are theories on the cycle of abuse, parents turning their children into monsters who grow up to be killers and rapists. I can understand on some level that we can’t hold these monsters to the same standards as everyone else, but hell if I can understand what pushes anyone into murdering an innocent. You’d think they have some compassion as a victim themselves. Why not go after the people who harmed you, or other horrible people? Why target someone who never hurt you?
I sit in the Jeep outside the sheriff’s office, not ready to leave just yet. I look at the time on my phone: 10:40 am. It’s still relatively early, but I can’t help feeling like time is ticking too fast. The longer Allie is missing, the less likely it is she’ll be home.
There must be something I can do.
I thumb through the contacts in Yvonne’s phone, hoping that one of them will trigger a memory of my temporary time as someone who can help. As I scan names, many of them her sources, Yvonne’s memories fill in the gaps. This guy is a Civil War expert. This woman is a specialist in medicine. This one is an environmental activist. Her contacts list is long, populated with people who could help her on nearly any story she and her reporters might need to tackle, but none seem to have a skill set that can help us find Allie.
