by Sean Platt
He rang the bell and continued to wait.
Nothing.
Mike decided to visit the old lady down the street to see what she knew.
Before he reached her door, she appeared at her doorstep, “Yes?” she asked.
From her expression and hand to hip, Mike could tell she was a suspicious type, who wouldn’t think twice about calling out bullshit if she got a whiff of it.
“Hello, Ma’am,” he said waving his hand and smiling, “I’ve got a flower delivery for Mary Olson, but she doesn’t seem to be there. Do you know what time she’s usually home? I hate to leave them on the doorstep because these lilies are thirsty, and they’ll die if it gets too hot; there doesn’t seem to be any decent shade out front. I could leave them in back, but she might not see them and the customer didn’t leave us with a phone number.”
The woman relaxed. “No. I think she works at home, so if she’s not answering, she might be out running errands or something.”
“OK,” Mike said, looking up the street, and coming up with a lie. “One of the neighbors said she lives with her daughter and that sometimes there’s another guy there, do you know when any of them come home? I don’t need to give them to Mary, just someone at the house.”
The woman’s brow furrowed, “I don’t think anybody else lives there. It’s just her and her girl.”
“Really?” Mike said, trying not to oversell his ploy. “Neighbor said he saw a skinny guy with longish, dark hair, early 30s. Really good-looking, but a bit crude?”
“Oh,” the woman said, her face turning sour, “him? No, he doesn’t live there. He’s a friend of hers, from out of town. Rudest man I’ve ever met.”
He laughed, pegging the woman as a born gossip. “Really? What happened?”
“Mary’s daughter, Paola, she came to my house one day asking to borrow a cupcake pan so she could make something as a surprise for her mom. So I lent it to her, no problem. But a week or so went by, and she didn’t return it. Now, normally, I wouldn’t care, I have plenty of pans and don’t mind lending stuff to neighbors, but this was my favorite pan, cooked stuff just right, nice and brown, never burnt, and nothing ever sticks. I really should’ve gotten more, since now you can’t find them. So, anyway, I went over to Mary’s to ask for my pan back, but Mary and Paola weren’t home. Instead, this … man … answered the door, and said Mary wasn’t home, but I could come back later. He seemed nice at first, smiling, and he was even wearing Mary’s apron. I told him I just wanted to get my pan back, because I had to bake something for a church function that night. I described the pan to him, and he said he was in the middle of using it, but if I could come back in an hour he’d give it back. Problem was, I didn’t really want to wait an hour, so I told him, and he got really rude with me. He asked me what was up my … well, I don’t want to repeat what he said, but let’s just say he had a sailor’s mouth. Just awful. Nobody should talk like that! I left, without my pan, and at that point I didn’t even want it, not after he touched it.”
Mike laughed, playing along. “Wow.”
“So, anyway, Mary came over a few days later and brought me my pan. I told her how rude her gentleman guest had been to. She apologized, then I told her that I was shocked, both that she would associate with such a foul human being, and that she’d allow her daughter anywhere near him. He’s disgusting. But she said, ‘Oh, that’s just Boricio, he’s really sweet once you get to know him. He’s just a bit eccentric.’”
“Boricio?” Mike asked, wondering if this was his killer’s name. “What kinda name is that?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’d never heard it before, but it sounds dago, and the way he talked made me think of a redneck Italian.”
Mike ignored the woman’s blatant racism. “Wow, sounds like a class act. So, he doesn’t live there? After that story, I’d hate to run into the guy.”
“No, I forget where she said he’s from. I think New York, which would figure, with that mouth of his.”
Mike laughed again, then looked back down at the flowers, “OK, well thanks for your help. I’ll maybe wait a few more minutes and see if she comes home. If she doesn’t, could I come back and leave the flowers with you? I’ve an awful lot of deliveries today and I’m not sure I can get back on this side of town before dark.”
Mike gave the woman his most pleasant smile.
“Certainly,” she said, smiling back.
“OK, thank you.” Mike went back down her walkway holding the flowers.
He approached a few more neighbors before returning to Mary’s with the same ruse. One of the neighbors, an older man named Winston, told Mike he thought Mary might be out of town. He’d seen her leave the morning before, or maybe the day before that, he wasn’t sure, and he’d not seen her Volvo in the driveway since.
Mike thanked the man then returned to his car and waited, hoping it wasn’t in vain.
After 10 minutes, he couldn’t wait any longer. It would be too suspicious, hell it probably already was for a “flower delivery guy” to be waiting around rather than leaving. If he stayed much longer, his cover would be blown and someone might call the cops.
Mike returned to Mary’s doorway, took a quick look around to make sure he was still unseen, then slipped to the side of the yard and into the back. His car’s windows were tinted dark enough that anyone looking from a distance wouldn’t notice he wasn’t still in it, which gave him some time to do what he had to.
He went to the home’s rear, glad to see that her house backed up to a wooded area, and therefore he didn’t have to worry about neighbors behind her spotting him.
He went to the rear sliding-glass door he had spotted when standing at the front, then looked up and down in search of alarm contacts. He saw none.
Mike was also pleasantly surprised that there was nothing in place to secure the doors. He was two for two and feeling confident as he palmed the glass with both hands and pressed, then lifted the right door from its track and slid it open. Once inside, he pulled a cloth from inside his pocket and wiped his prints from the glass, then slid the door back into the groove to erase any sign of his entrance. If he could find what he was looking for — something that might lead him to Boricio — he wouldn’t have to discuss anything with Mary. The fewer people he spoke with, the thinner his trail to Boricio’s inevitable murder.
**
Mike found what he was looking for sooner than expected, in Mary’s laptop.
Just as her house wasn’t guarded by alarm, her computer wasn’t password protected. He was three for three. Mike did a search for the name “Boricio” and came up with nothing. He saw that Mary didn’t use her computer’s mail program, which meant her e-mail was likely browser based. Whether he could check that or not depended on whether Mary’s browser was still signed in to her e-mail or if she stored her password on her computer unencrypted. Given the sorry state of security in her house, it was quite likely.
First, he decided to search through her computer’s images. While none were named or tagged Boricio, or any derivative of, Mike found what he was looking for within minutes — a picture of four people, Mary, Paola, Boricio, and a woman who looked to be Boricio’s girlfriend.
“Bingo,” Mike said.
The image looked too much like the sketches of the suspect in his daughter’s death. Too similar for coincidence.
Mike saved all of Mary’s images to a flash drive, then clicked on her browser and began looking for anything relating to Boricio.
Unfortunately, her e-mail account’s stored password didn’t work. She must’ve changed it and not updated her browser. The first miss in his search so far.
He wondered if Mary was out of town. And if so, had she gone to visit Boricio? He checked her apps and found a personal finance application button, which, if she used it and synced it with her bank account, would update regularly to reflect her credit or bank card charges.
He clicked it and was thrilled to see Mary’s bank card history show up. He saw ho
tel and restaurant charges in L.A., from one day before.
Everything in Mike told him to come back another time and talk to Mary after she got back, until a tiny voice inside him prodded:
What if she’s with him? This could be your only chance.
Throughout Mike’s career as a cop, he had learned to trust his gut above all else. He wasn’t about to stop.
It was time to continue his road trip.
Mike wait until he was far away from Mary’s house before calling Margie to explain that he’d be on the road a little longer. Fortunately, she was used to his occasional road trips that he usually used for field research.
As he stuck Mary’s laptop under his jacket and left her house, placing the flowers beside Mary’s back door, Mike thought of his daughter again.
Soon, Honey. Soon, I’ll make everything right.
* * * *
CHAPTER 4 — Mary Olson
Malibu, California
By the look on his rosy cheeks, Boricio had slept like a baby. The rest of them slept horribly.
Mary hadn’t felt so on edge since fleeing the Drury that awful October past, then fearing for her life through every second of the long, hard winter, until Desmond led them to temporary solace at the Alabama farm.
Rose was clearly terrified, but didn’t want to talk about anything, preferring — or maybe even needing — to pretend that nothing had happened before her meeting with Marina. But as much as Rose wanted to pretend that her horrible reality didn’t exist, the truth was a blushing ache all over her face.
Boricio had returned to the hotel to “take care of the bodies,” whatever that meant, and he had done it for all of them, which horrified Rose in a way Mary could only imagine, but not truly understand. Mary had known both versions of Boricio, both before and after Luca’s fixing, and didn’t think there was anything about him that could surprise her. But Rose had known Boricio only as her lover. Mary was grateful for his earlier version, because it was that version who no doubt saved her life the night before, and would no doubt help her find an answer for Paola, if Rose’s machine failed to work.
Mary felt for Rose, thought she could practically hear her heart beating as they drove the coast toward Marina’s — even if she could buy Boricio’s reasoning that the bodies he buried were only dead because they were infected by some sentient monster from “who-knows-where-in-the-fuck-all,” and Mary wasn’t sure she did. Rose was clearly afraid that it was only a matter of time before they traced the bodies back to Boricio, then, of course to her.
Mary would be happy to reassure Rose, relay more of the horrible stories from the dead world that made Mary fear the police less than the living evil from that other Earth, the monster who swallowed her daughter, holding her prisoner until Luca had saved her, infecting her mind and turning her into an empty shell, or perhaps a marionette with pure evil as puppeteer. Mary would be glad to tell her why she trusted Boricio, despite his homicidal tendencies, though Rose didn’t obviously didn’t know much about those, if anything at all.
Rose clearly wanted none of that, wanted to know nothing, so she held her eyes to the window as Mary drove, following her cell phone’s directions and doing her best at pretending the night hadn’t happened. She would have to deal with it soon, after leaving Marina’s. Until then, Mary figured, Rose would be keeping her mind on the dotted line.
Sick as he was, Mary felt an irrefutable comfort from Boricio. She wished he was with them now, riding shotgun in the Volvo. Someone or something was after them. On the dead world It had invaded Paola, and Mary worried that It might go inside her again. Mary was haunted by that constant thought, ever since last night’s events.
What if It knows where we are, because It can see inside Paola, after having been inside her before?
Mary wished she was more like Rose, able to shut off her mind and simply not think about the creeping evil, but that wasn’t how she was wired. Mary would find a thought, and gravitate around it like a moth and flame, even if the flame threatened her sanity.
She wanted Boricio for protection, and friendship. Even though she had Paola riding in back, Mary barely knew Rose, and felt odd going with her alone to meet the leader of a well-known, and oft-ridiculed cult. She had a hard time believing she wouldn’t see Marina as thoroughly full of shit, and didn’t want to offend Rose if that was the case. If Boricio was with them, he’d say what she was thinking without Mary having to, since she was sure it wouldn’t be far from what he was thinking himself. Boricio never had problems telling it like it is. Mary would think it, he would say it, and save her the embarrassment of an unnecessary scene.
All three of them had asked Boricio to go, but he was barely awake and in need of some shuteye after disposing of the bodies.
They pulled up to Marina’s house — the J.L. Harmon Estate — and though Rose had prepared her and Paola for what they would see, Mary was unable to stifle her awe.
“Wow,” she whispered, turning to Paola in the seat behind her.
“No kidding,” Paola whispered, putting a lump in Mary’s throat, not from the words themselves, but because Mary still wasn’t used to her 13-year-old (baby girl) daughter looking as though she could legally drink.
They had approached the three-story house from behind, driving along a gorgeous stretch of dry and sandy Malibu beach, then behind a waterfall, and past what looked like an acre of lush landscaping before pulling to a stop in front of a sprawling palace. Everything about the house was giant: columns, windows, doors, and view.
Mary looked up to an upper floor window and saw a man looking down, no not looking, staring. An icy chill flooded her body, starting at the base of her neck and slithering low past her waist.
She tried to be like Rose, ignoring the stare as she slammed the Volvo door, greeted by a valet before they were led into the house and asked to wait in a sprawling foyer.
Marina showed up in fewer than five minutes, smiling wide as if there were cameras at the door.
Mary had seen Marina on TV, but was still surprised by her in-person beauty. More than just pretty, Marina was gorgeous. She looked freshly scrubbed, her cheeks lightly blushed, long, honey-colored hair piled high on her head. She turned to Rose, kissed her once on each cheek, said it was wonderful to see her, then turned to Mary and Paola, waiting for her introduction.
“These are my friends, Mary and Paola Olson,” Rose said, then turned back to Marina. “You helped me so much with my migraines, and my anxiety — which I hadn’t even told you about — that I was hoping you could help them as well. Thanks again for seeing us. Their problem is … special.”
“Of course,” Marina smiled, seeming pleased. “That’s why we’re here.”
Marina didn’t ask what their special problem might be, she just led them through the foyer and into a breathtaking study without any walls, just a single partition of glass running the length of the room and opening out to a pool, tennis court, and gardens so lush they made Desmond’s yard in Warson look like a desert.
Marina gestured for the three girls to sit in an oversized, white sofa, then she sat across from them and crossed her legs. “So,” she said, “what seems to be the trouble?”
Before Rose could answer, Mary said, “I’d rather not say.”
“You’d rather not say?” Marina raised her eyebrows, then without waiting for Mary’s response added, “Then how can I help you?”
“I don’t mean to be rude, Ms. Harmon, but I’m not sure what to think about … any of this … and as much as I’d love to believe, I would have an easier time if I wasn’t telling you what sort of problem you were trying to solve.”
Instead of getting defensive, Marina smiled and said, “Go on.”
Mary held Marina’s eyes. “From what Rose has told me, your machine is called The Capacitor, and it fixes something you call The Current, which you believe to be some sort of metaphysical stream that exists between mind and body, is that correct?”
Marina smiled. “Roughly, yes, but it’s
really not quite that simple.”
“Well,” Mary continued, “if that’s basically it, then I think you might be able to help us.”
Marina sat for a long minute, ignoring Rose as she looked from Mary to Paola and back, several times. Finally, her face slightly tensed, she said, “Very well then, follow me.” Marina stood from her overstuffed chair, then crossed the study to a door behind a long desk and swiped her thumb across a pad beside the door.
The door opened. Marina stepped through it, then turned toward the girls and motioned for them to follow. The new room was mostly bare except for a long tube with a small window at the top.
Paola said, “Isn’t anyone going to ask me what I think?”
Rose was silent, Mary stuttered. Marina said, “Of course, Dear, I’m so very sorry. What do you think?”
Paola looked at the machine, then at Marina. “I don’t care how it works, I just want to know if it can hurt me.”
“Of course not.” Marina shook her head. “If it could hurt you, we would never allow you inside it. It’s possible The Capacitor won’t do anything to you at all. I’ve seen that happen plenty, though I believe even then it’s delivering results we cannot see. Because The Capacitor works by repairing your cells, and improving The Current between mind and body, there’s no way it could possibly cause your harm. It’s either good, or nothing.”
“How can you be sure?” Paola asked.
Mary thought that Paola seemed uncomfortable, but wasn’t sure if her discomfort was because of the giant house, the stranger who owned it, the religion that bought it, or the odd, magical machine that could somehow promise the impossible.
“Well, Dear, you know what they say about death and taxes, right?”
“No,” Paola shook her head. She was too young to worry much about either, though she had more experience with the first than she should have.
