Weavers

by Aric Davis

  Darryl eased out of him. He wanted to stay and watch him work, but his headache was bad enough, and he couldn’t even imagine what a few more hours might do to him. Darryl came to at his computer and began to massage his right calf as the pain there intensified. When he felt like he could walk, he began a journey into the kitchen. Darryl drank from under the tap for a few minutes, then shut the water off and walked to Terry’s room. Darryl pounded three times on the door, heard no answer, and walked inside. For the second time in one night, Darryl was truly shocked. The window to Terry’s second-floor room was open, and Terry was gone.

  “Fuck,” said Darryl to the empty room. “Oh fuck, oh fuck.”

  He slammed the door behind him and then slid into his shoes and ran out of the apartment. Terry could have been anywhere, and there were hunters afoot after them. If Terry fucked up the way that Darryl expected he would, heads were going to roll, and a large police and federal presence was going to descend upon them. Maybe your bogeymen, too, thought Darryl, but that was too miserable a thought to let linger. Darryl hopped down the steps to the ground floor and ran to the flattened bushes under Terry’s window. There were footprints in the lawn running south, so that was where Darryl went.

  Darryl moved quickly, scanning the shadows with his mind along with his more normal senses. If Terry was nearby, Darryl would find him soon, but he was worried about what he might find with him. You thought he was getting better, but he was just waiting for a chance to run away. It was a sobering thought: If Terry could do that, what else had he been up to? Worse, how much did he really know? Darryl walked quickly through the night, avoiding streetlights as he pounded the blacktop, the glow of North Harbor fading behind him. If Terry was still in the building, then there was no way Darryl could come back, because there was going to be a room full of bodies there with him. Darryl’s only chance was to find him still on the prowl, take him by pleading or with a good shove, and then bring him back to the apartment.

  This is the time to get rid of him, thought Darryl, but that wasn’t true. If there was a time to get rid of Terry, it would have been after Darryl had used up Robert. He’d need him then. The dose Darryl gave Terry after that would probably be enough to kill him, and if it wasn’t, it would certainly make him too dangerous to keep around. Darryl felt like a man debating whether or not the latest incident from the dog was enough to justify putting it down. Either way, you need to find him first, and the thought propelled Darryl back into a sprint. The streets were deserted and there was no sign of Terry, but Darryl knew that his friend would find someone soon, assuming that he hadn’t already.

  Darryl saw the neon lights from half a mile away and felt like he could smell the spilled beer and ashtrays already. Where else would he be but a bar? Darryl slowed to a walk, cursing Terry with every step for making him do this instead of trying to figure out how in the fuck someone had gotten into his head. You can worry about that later. Right now you need to find Terry before it’s too late. Though Darryl couldn’t help but think that Terry was already gone from the scene ahead of him and that the trail left by whoever had been in his head back at the apartment was disappearing by the second.

  The bar was called the Shipwreck and was of the blue-collar variety, and the smells were exactly as Darryl had known they would be. He had spent enough time in bars just like this, drinking and waking up drenched in those odors like he’d been dunked in a tank of Chanel Number Shit. There was no sign of Terry, but Darryl could feel and see eyes on him in the half-full bar. Of course, they would be on him—everyone else in this hole surely knew one another. This kind of attention was never comfortable, and even less so when one was a fugitive from the law. Darryl ignored the stares, and interest faded to boredom as he strode to the bar and sat.

  The bartender, a heavyset woman with a blown-out nose and a yellow haze in her eyes, asked what she could get him. Nothing sounded worse to Darryl at that moment than a drink—he needed his wits about him if he was going to find and retrieve his psychotic friend and figure out who was sneaking around within his own skull—but he could hardly sit here without one.

  “Miller Lite,” said Darryl.

  The woman grunted and walked to the cooler, and Darryl dove into her. The bartender, name of Mary Reynolds, would have been easy to pick apart—her whole life was laid bare before him, thanks to the booze and pills she was currently sweating out—but Darryl didn’t have time and didn’t care. Another sterling member of the got-fucked-by-your-dad club, thought Darryl as he wormed his way into her more recent memories, all of them murky. He found Terry a few seconds later—his friend ordering a drink and then walking into the bathroom with a butter-faced biker chick in a leather miniskirt. Mary’s sole thought that accompanied this was, Big Rick comes back, he’s going to kill that man, but Darryl had enough. He let her go, and Mary staggered as she knelt to get the longneck from the cooler but didn’t go down.

  Darryl slapped three bills on the bar. “Be right back. Just need to hit the head,” he said as he slid from his barstool, and Mary recovered from her wooziness—she had a lot of experience with that—enough to give him a half smile and a nod.

  Darryl saw more of those same smiles as he forced himself to walk without urgency to the restroom. They all knew what he was going to find, and he imagined it was a common enough sight: Big Rick’s old lady bent over a sink getting the business. Only Darryl knew that tonight he would find a much worse show taking place in the Shipwreck’s bathroom. Darryl drew a deep breath and then bumped the door with his shoulder, loath to leave a fingerprint on the entrance to a certain crime scene if he could help it.

  “Ah shit,” said Darryl as he stepped inside.

  Big Rick’s old lady was indeed getting the business from Terry, but she was quite visibly dead. Terry, lustily pounding away at the woman’s still-twitching body, hadn’t even noticed that he had gained an audience.

  “Jesus Christ, Terry,” said Darryl, and Terry’s slit eyes winked open, first in anger and then in shock.

  Terry let go of the woman, and she dropped to the floor of the bar’s bathroom, landing with a wet thud and rolling, allowing Darryl to see her ruined throat.

  “I don’t know,” said Terry, and Darryl just shook his head at this insightful comment.

  Terry was covered in blood and so was the bathroom. The bar beyond the door was at least half-full, and even this crackerjack crowd seemed likely to note the gore slathering his friend. Not to mention the return of Big Rick.

  As though summoned forth by this unhappy thought, a bellowing man could be heard from the bar. “Linda!” roared the voice, and then again, “Lin-da!” It was only getting closer.

  “I don’t know, and I’m sorry,” offered Terry, but Darryl ignored him and stepped back against the wall just before the door was kicked in.

  Big Rick was aptly named. The man stood at least six and a half feet tall, and he was nearly as wide. Terry didn’t even look up at him. He was busy washing his hands in the sink, getting as much gore off of them as possible, and Linda’s body lay on the floor between them.

  “What the fuck?” Big Rick asked, a reasonable response to the distance between the scene before him and the one he’d expected to find.

  Darryl stepped from the side of the door, still behind Big Rick, and shoved hard. / Punish her / Rip her apart for what she did / Big Rick froze and then fell to the floor and busied himself with the woman. Darryl and Terry both watched the scene for a moment, unable to tear their eyes away, and then Darryl grabbed Terry’s arm and the pair of them ran from the bathroom. Behind them came a noise like someone trying to plunge a toilet, but Darryl didn’t look back.

  “He let you off easy,” remarked Mary, the bartender, as the two men staggered for the door.

  The alcoholic peanut gallery concurred, giving Darryl and Terry sideways looks that seemed to say, Been there, done that.

  Darryl shrugged, not sure what to sa
y, only knowing that they needed to leave. The two of them slipped into the night, odd glances chasing them into the moonlight.

  There were no sirens as Darryl and Terry walked from the Shipwreck and headed back home, though that was just a matter of time. Darryl didn’t think Big Rick would be in any condition to tell the cops what he’d seen when he walked into the bathroom, but there was no way to be sure. Not that it was likely to matter. He couldn’t imagine the cops being too interested in anything Big Rick might have to say, given his no doubt colorful past and the bloodbath he’d be discovered playing in. Still, as the North Harbor Apartments came into sight, Darryl shivered violently, despite the warm weather.

  “I’m sorry,” said Terry again, and Darryl shuddered at the words.

  “I know,” said Darryl, unable to tell Terry the rest, that while Darryl had been out looking for him, he should have been trying to figure out who had been in his head. You’ll find them, thought Darryl, unless they decide to find you first. Darryl shuddered again, more violently this time, and his teeth chattered like a windup toy. You should leave right now. Don’t even pack, just disappear and try somewhere else. You might even be able to reconnect with Robert. He might still be OK.

  The shuddering ceased, and Darryl turned to Terry. His topknot had gone from lurid purple to pink and blue, and Darryl said, “Let’s just get inside.”

  I’ll leave when I find out who it was. Darryl knew it was a mistake, but he also knew that he wouldn’t be able to live with himself knowing that he’d never punished the violator or extracted any of the money he’d made with Robert. Everything is going to be fine, thought Darryl as he staggered up the steps to the apartment. Sirens were gathering like fireflies in the night, but even though Darryl knew it was a mistake, all he wanted was to lie down. The search for the thief in his head could wait for one more day.

  He was wrong about that.

  CHAPTER 62

  “Please tell me that you got something that time,” said Pat after roaring back into the real world. “I was in forever that time. There had to have been something.”

  But when Pat spun in his chair, there was no one anywhere near him. Instead, they were all crowded around Brinn’s computer. Even Jessica was leaning in over her. This was just the latest insult in what was beginning to feel like a never-ending string of them.

  Pat stretched, stood, and then walked over to join them.

  “Got him,” sang Brinn as he approached. “We fucking got him!”

  Jessica pumped her fist in the air while Geoff and Rick high-fived.

  Starving and delirious from having those fucking apes in his head, Pat staggered to a halt before them. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Got him? How could they get him? I was just there. He was just in me. None of it made sense. All Pat knew was that after Darryl and that other guy were finished with him, he felt like his grandmother yelling about kids wearing shoes in the house and leaving fingerprints on the walls. Those dudes made his head feel filthy.

  “What are you guys yelling about?” Pat asked as he fell into the chair closest to Brinn’s desk. “I’m thirsty.”

  “You got that motherfucker, Pat,” shouted Geoff. “You let him do his thing, and we got his IP address. Jessica can find him now!”

  The sense of the words finally crashed down on him like a tidal wave. He’d given up on them actually succeeding in leaning on Terry and Darryl. The job had come to feel more like an excruciating academic exercise than a mission that could actually be accomplished. He was just Sisyphus with his damn rock.

  “You really got something?”

  “Full IP address,” said Brinn without turning. “I’m tracking it right now. It won’t take long.”

  Jessica was rubbing her hands together maniacally, Geoff and Rick were slavering at the screen like starving lions who’d spotted wounded prey across the savannah, and Brinn had blue light flashing against her face.

  “Are you ready to rumble?” Geoff asked no one, and the group—excluding Pat—burst into peals of laughter.

  Pat was shocked to see that even Jessica was busting a gut at the lazy joke. He just sat in silence. All he could think was that he had been rumbling, and now he was ready to take the gloves off, slump in his corner, and have a water. His mind ached like a sore muscle. No, more than that—not a headache, but like someone had been working his brain with a melon baller.

  “Am I done then?” he asked in a small voice. “Is the weird shit over?”

  “Not just yet,” said Jessica. “Where are you at, Brinn?”

  Pat’s stomach dropped sixteen stories. Why aren’t we done? What’s left to do? They have the IP address. Mission accomplished.

  “Grand Rapids, Michigan,” said Brinn. “I can get closer, I’m just waiting on some—”

  “Keep working,” said Jessica. “Geoff and Rick, get Pat’s computer packed. This show is going on the road.”

  “What?” Pat asked.

  “Do we get to go?” Rick asked, and Jessica shook her head.

  “The only people going from here are Pat and me, with one other important guest,” said Jessica. “Pat, I wish I could send you home to pack, but we’re going to be on a helicopter very soon and I need you ready to go. We can get you whatever you need when you land.”

  “Wait. Why do I need to go?” Pat whined, hating his voice as it escaped his lips. “Why can’t I just stay here and work?”

  “Because I need you,” said Jessica as she took her phone from her belt, flipped it open, and got dialing. “So get ready. We want these boys busy when we roll in.”

  CHAPTER 63

  “I want you to tell me everything,” said Mrs. Martin as she took her seat at the table across from Cynthia.

  Grilled cheese sandwiches and tall glasses of water sat between the two of them, but Cynthia’s appetite died with her friend’s question. Cynthia hadn’t said anything about what she’d seen in the men’s apartment.

  “Spit it out, my dear. You’re harboring something ugly, so let’s be rid of it.”

  “I went exploring last night, on the map,” explained Cynthia slowly, and Mrs. Martin nodded. Cynthia knew that she was angry with her—even worse, disappointed. It didn’t matter, though. Cynthia wasn’t sure of exactly what she’d seen, but she knew it was bad and that Mrs. Martin was the only person who might be able to help. “I saw the men that we saw the other day, from the truck. They live on the other end of the parking lot.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “One of them was mad,” explained Cynthia. “He was all purple and black, and he just looked so angry. Dad was really upset, but this was a lot worse. I was going to leave after I saw that, but I went back to see the other man. He’d been at his computer before and he was when I got back, but he was gone, too. He was weaving with the computer. I could see the threads coming from him, and they went into this little box that was hooked to the wall. When I went into him, I could see that he was looking through someone else, and that person was looking at a computer, too. It looked like he was doing something with money, but I couldn’t tell for sure.”

  “Oh my,” said Mrs. Martin. She reached for a cigarette, and when she lit it, her hands were shaking.

  Cynthia felt like the worst person in the world. “I’m sorry. I know I’m not supposed to do that stuff without you, but I was bored, and I just wanted to explore. Their apartment wasn’t marked, and I just thought I’d have a peek, just to see.” Cynthia swallowed thickly, and Mrs. Martin exhaled smoke. “I knew it was bad as soon as I was in there,” whispered Cynthia.

  “Are you sure about what you saw?” Mrs. Martin asked. “You need to be very sure, Cynthia. Are you absolutely positive that you saw him weaving into a computer?”

  When Cynthia nodded again, Mrs. Martin nodded, then set her cigarette on the edge of the ashtray and exhaled deeply, smoke and frustration curling over her lips.


  “Eat your sandwich,” said Mrs. Martin. “I’m going to need to see for myself, and I’m going to need you to come with me.”

  “Do I have to?”

  Mrs. Martin smiled at her sadly. “I have a lot of tricks up my sleeve, dear, but age is not on my side, and I’ve never been as strong as you. I’ll need you to guide me there, and then I’ll want your help in case we get into a bind.” Mrs. Martin took another drag from her cigarette and said, “Eat up. The sooner it’s over, the better.”

  Cynthia nodded and then tore into her sandwich. She wasn’t hungry, but she wanted to do as she was told and for what Mrs. Martin had said to be true. She wanted it to be over.

  CHAPTER 64

  Darryl was going through the Roberts’s accounts, dumping them all into a single offshore account that only he had the numbers for, but he still felt the intruders. It was like feeling a lover’s breath on the back of his neck, and then they were inside.

  Darryl had never felt bad about the many, many times he’d violated others in just this way, but he was shocked and wild with hatred for them all the same. He despised them for making his life harder than it already was, for having the nerve to try to see inside of him, yet he forced himself to remain calm. Even though he was positive they were going to try and steal his money, he let them in. There were two of them this time; he was sure of it, just as he’d been sure that there had only been one before.

  He’d already seized several hundred thousand dollars, so if this was the beginning of the end, he’d at least made a good start. They don’t know that you know they’re here, Darryl reminded himself, sure that he was mentally strong enough that they wouldn’t be able to steal his thoughts, no matter how hard they might try. As far as that went, who the hell cared if they did know they were in him?