by Aric Davis
Darryl walked to the bathroom, ran his hands over his face, and then stared into the mirror, grinned, and extended a middle finger to himself and to them. They were gone from him as if they’d never been there at all. Darryl spun in the room, looking for them and knowing there would be nothing there to see. He ran to the computer, but everything there was fine, too. There was no way for either of them to have gleaned any information from him or the screen, but Darryl found that even that relief wasn’t good enough. He needed to know who they were, and he needed to know why they were fucking with him. He pounded his fist into the wall, and Terry came running.
“Are you OK?”
Darryl shook his head and collapsed to the floor, landing on his ass. “No, I am not,” said Darryl. “I feel like I’m going crazy. There was just someone in my head, I know it, but they didn’t do anything.”
He closed his eyes, and as he tumbled onto his side he heard Terry calling to him. Then there was nothing. Darryl was floating in the air near the ceiling of the apartment, a trick he hadn’t tried in years. Indulging in it felt like a step back for him, but then he saw them, and he knew he’d been right to try it. They were floating together, a shimmering form that was both very real and translucent at the same time. Darryl watched them as they sat together in the corner, watching him and Terry and listening like a couple of spies. How long have they been here? Why are they coming at all? Who are they? The questions would have to wait. The thieves felt him—he knew it—and just as they’d run from his head, now they ran from the bent world in the apartment and were gone.
Darryl winked back into himself, opened his eyes, and pushed himself to a sitting position.
“We need to leave.”
“Now?”
“Yesterday,” said Darryl as he stood. “It’s probably already too late.” Fuck.
CHAPTER 65
“He’s clearing it all out,” said Pat as he came to, and Jessica grinned. The game was on. They’d be out in the open soon, and with any luck, in custody very soon after that.
While conditions for Pat had actually improved in some ways here on the road—Jessica was certain they were feeding him better than he fed himself, for instance, and they also took the trouble to keep him hooked to a saline drip to ward off dehydration—it nonetheless had to be terrifying, draining work. Jessica had had decades to get used to Frank, but even she couldn’t begin to imagine what it must be like to actually have the slob inside your head.
“It’s gone,” he said. “All the money is in a new account, and they’re going to ground. You need to move now.”
Jessica nodded and began to stride from the room. She paused, though, considering her assets and options. She tried to imagine capturing her quarry with just Tesla-helmeted men armed with Tasers but balked at the prospect, forced herself to really consider what was at stake. What happened next could be the tipping point for the United States for the next fifty years. No, she needed Frank on board, too. There was no point in pretending that it could be done any other way. Frank could still do a shutdown. He was still the alpha in the room, even to a reverse-mute. There could be no shutting him out. Jessica flashed back to that awful last meeting with Howard. He was wrong. Darryl and Terry were exactly what they needed, and she would prove it once she apprehended the TKs and brought the issue to the board.
“I’m leaving,” said Jessica, “right now, and I need you to stay here and stay online.”
“Done.”
“Frank is coming with me,” explained Jessica. “He can shut these people off, and he is required for this mission.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Pat, but this is how it has to be.”
“It’s fine,” said Pat.
What, Jessica was apologizing for taking him off the head-shrinking team? No sweat. He wanted to be cut from this weird field team. The initial euphoria had long since faded. He wanted to be back in Hartford and riding a desk amidst his friends. This literally mind-numbing work, with the travel and the risks he was just beginning to realize no one could quantify just yet—not to mention being involved in actually cornering these maniacs—wasn’t for him. There was a reason that he didn’t watch cop shows, that comedies packed the DVD racks back in his sad old apartment.
“I’m ready to go home.”
“Not home,” said Jessica. “At least not yet. I need you to do one more thing.”
“Oh. OK.”
“I need you to log in and be live bait for these assholes,” said Jessica. “You know all of the loopholes, all of the stuff that Frank opened up for you and this mission. Darryl or Terry—whoever it is—is already busy dumping assets, gathering stolen money, and he’s going to stay that way. He’ll be glued to his monitor, so you won’t need to do anything but focus on picturing your own computer and making sure he stays that way.”
“What? You want me to do this without help?”
“Just enjoy the ride,” said Jessica. “You know the scams, the sites, so just follow along. The longer you can keep him occupied, the better our chances. You just need to do your job, and I know you can.”
“I don’t even know that—how can you?”
“Trust me, the last thing they’re going to be thinking of is dumping all of this or getting rid of you. To them it looks like there are still millions of dollars ripe for the plucking, and they’re not going to give that up. Just stay calm, and remember, they can’t possibly know what we’re up to.”
“I don’t like this.”
“We’ll be back in Hartford before you know it,” said Jessica. “You just need to help us get there.”
CHAPTER 66
Ruth Sherwood walked to her car with a smile on her face. She was tired, even though it was only lunch, but it was a good kind of tired. Working with Nick at the liquor store had been hard, too, but this was different, far more rewarding, and still a little weird. She’d always wondered what kind of place she could’ve made for herself in the world if she hadn’t married so young, and now she was finding out. Since separating from Nick, she’d gulped independence like a rescued swimmer gulps oxygen.
Cheating bastard. There it was, out of nowhere, derailing her pleased, proud train of thought like a dynamited trestle. She hated herself for letting it happen. What made it worse was that she still pined after him like some teenager. When Cynthia was asleep and the world felt dark and dangerous to Ruth, she wanted her man. It couldn’t be helped. They’d practically grown up together. Nick had been her soulmate before he’d ever touched her, and when her dreams turned to gripped sheets and a burning itch from what felt like the very center of her, he was the one and only answer to her prayers. She hated him and she loved him, which she knew was the definition of crazy. Now that she was soaring off into a world that still felt more like an excited dream than reality, she also knew she owed it to Cynthia to keep her feet on the ground.
Ruth hated that part. She wanted to be a good mother, but she felt she just had to be more than that as well. She felt like a freed bird, and Cynthia was the loving lanyard holding her back from flying freely. There was nothing for it, though. She’d make it—they both would—and it would be worth it in the end. It was easy to imagine them reminiscing over coffee with tear-streaked faces, Cynthia in her graduation robe and Ruth in a tailored suit, the two of them talking of how proud they were of one another for making it through those tough times together.
Ruth was sticking her key into the car door, thinking not for the first time that if she’d been planning to jump ship she should have waited for a car upgrade, when she felt something press into the side of her head hard.
“Greetings, cunt,” said Nick.
Ruth wanted to scream. She hadn’t seen him since that awful birthday party—no one had—but she’d never stopped feeling him out there. Still, she’d somehow never expected him to just show up like this—and certainly had never, ever expected to hear him talk to her like that.
&n
bsp; She needed to get a grip. Take a breath. Little boys and petty men hate to let go of their toys, remember? Nick had been first one and was now the other. She’d tried telling herself that he’d just run, that he’d accepted as she had that the relationship was over and discarded her for that whore, but she’d known deep down she was wrong. She’d known he was always going to be out there—but she’d never imagined the look in his eyes.
“Let me go,” said Ruth. “I won’t tell anyone I saw you.”
Instead of speaking, Nick reached around her and turned the key in the lock, opened the driver’s door, and shoved her behind the wheel. There was a moment after he’d slammed the door shut when Ruth thought she could get away. Nick was still reaching for the handle of the back door, and all she needed to do was slide the keys in the ignition, put the car in gear, and slam on the gas, but none of that happened. Ruth fumbled the keys, hit the door lock as a last resort, but then the doors unlocked, and Nick slid into the backseat. You cheating fucker, thought Ruth. The gun was pressed against her head again.
“You left the spare keys at home, Ruth,” said Nick, his voice cruel but cloyingly familiar. “You thought clearly enough to leave me and take my daughter, you kept it together enough to file divorce papers and get a restraining order, but you left your spare keys at home.” Nick sighed, as though he were the one in trouble because of this oversight, and all Ruth could think about was the pepper spray trapped at the bottom of her purse.
“Why don’t you drive us home?” said Nick. “Take me to my daughter.”
“She’s not home,” said Ruth.
“So take me to where she is,” hissed Nick.
Ruth’s mind was reeling, trying to come up with some lie that would placate him, but she knew Nick. He was going to get what he wanted eventually. She did the only thing she could think to. Ruth turned the car on, pulled out of the parking lot, and started driving. Nick wanted to see his daughter, and there was nothing she could do about that—at least not yet. If she was lucky, she’d see a cop or be able to signal another driver that she was in trouble, but Ruth already knew neither of those things was going to happen.
Still, she pleaded with him. “Just leave us alone, Nick. We’ll get the charges dropped for what happened at the party. You’ll be free then. You’ll have Linda and can just leave us alone.”
Nick chuckled from the backseat, the gun pressing against her head as she pulled onto the highway.
“You have no idea what I have and what I don’t,” said Nick. “Just take me to my goddamn daughter.”
CHAPTER 67
“I need to call the police,” said Mrs. Martin. She let go of Cynthia’s hands and then lit a cigarette. “I need to call the police.”
Mrs. Martin had said the same thing twice, but Cynthia didn’t know why, nor did she know why Mrs. Martin didn’t pick up the phone.
“Need to call the police,” repeated Mrs. Martin again, smoke pouring from her mouth. “I can call your mother. We can tell her that we need to run, that we need to go right now. We can tell her where to meet up with us. She has a good head on her shoulders, and we can convince her without telling her about those men in the apartment.” Mrs. Martin frowned. “The important thing is to get as far away from them as possible. I can’t imagine why they’re here, but as long as they are, none of us are safe.”
Across the room, Stanley began barking on the couch the dogs were sharing, loud yips to show he was sharing in their distress, and then Libby began to sound off as well. As clear as day, Cynthia heard / Shut up / Shut up / in her head. The dogs both dropped to the floor, falling from the couch as though they’d been felled by gunfire. Cynthia ran to them, upsetting her chair as she left the table. The dogs were tottering up onto their stubby legs as she got to them, both listing like drunks on the first Friday of the month.
“What did you do?” Cynthia asked. “How could you hurt them?”
“I didn’t mean to,” said Mrs. Martin.
Cynthia was cowering on the floor with the whining dogs swirling around her.
“We’ll go to your apartment,” said Mrs. Martin. “We can hide there. No one will think to look there. Your mother gave me a key.”
“OK.” Cynthia stood, hoisting a dog under each arm.
Mrs. Martin nodded quickly, discharging smoke as her head bobbled up and down. “Now,” she said. “We need to leave now.”
Grabbing her cordless phone from its charger, she darted to the front door, calling to Cynthia to hurry. Cynthia did as she was told, the placated dogs still under her arms, and followed Mrs. Martin outside.
The sun was shining as they walked into the light, the wind blowing lightly and the temperature a comfortable eighty degrees. Mrs. Martin had already started up the steps to their apartment when Cynthia saw Mom’s car pull in front of the building. Cynthia stopped and turned in time to see Mom spill from the driver’s side and begin running toward her. A man was following her, a man that Cynthia took a second to realize was Dad.
“Run,” said Mom as she charged toward her, but Cynthia’s feet were bolted to the ground, just as her eyes were locked to the gun that Dad was holding in his right hand. Dad hates guns, she thought, but that didn’t seem to matter anymore.
“Not one more step,” Dad said.
Mom did as he said, coming to a full, wide-eyed halt, as though she shared Cynthia’s view of the gun Dad had now leveled at the back of her head.
“We’re going on a little ride,” Dad said. “All four of us, including the old bitch on the steps. C’mon, it’s time to get in the car, Cynthia.”
No one moved. They were frozen like statues where they stood, though Cynthia could hear Mrs. Martin on the phone behind her, whispering something to what Cynthia hoped was the police.
“I said get in the fucking car!” screamed Dad, and then Cynthia was leaping up into the map of North Harbor, the sound of a gunshot chasing her into the tranquility of their place in the sky.
Cynthia had no time to process what the gunshot meant or even that Dad had actually shot the gun at all. She had work to do. She dove from the sky to Dad, lurched to a stop just above him and then buried her hands deep in the black and purple threads flaying the air above him. She began to weave—not as Mrs. Martin had taught her, not for peace or to help him, but to just make him stop. Cynthia could see Mom falling slowly beneath her, a fan of blood still held in the air like a halo around her head, but she kept on—no longer working as a weaver but cutting as a Moirai.
CHAPTER 68
Darryl completed the last of the transactions and then gave Robert a hard push so that the boy would run. Darryl had left Robert with ten thousand dollars because he thought the kid might have a shot with that much of a stake and granted it to him out of thanks. Of course, their work over the last week had netted Darryl just shy of two million dollars and would be the ruin of Robert’s family, and especially his father. Two million. Not bad for a little bit of work. Darryl gave a last look around the apartment. They were leaving everything but the computer. Not that it mattered. They owned nothing but junk and would have replaced it all, anyway.
“Are you sure we have to leave?” Terry asked, and Darryl didn’t dignify his question with a response. Terry was still coming to grips with what had happened the night before, and Darryl wasn’t surprised that his friend was a mess.
“Yes, I’m sure,” said Darryl as he walked to the door. Terry followed him, a sheepish look on his face. “Get in the truck, and let’s get the hell out of here. I’ve had enough of Michigan and enough of this damn apartment to last me a lifetime.”
Darryl climbed into the truck and had the engine turned over by the time Terry hopped into the passenger seat. Feeling better by the second, he backed out, then hit the brakes and jammed it into drive to leave North Harbor, sure that he would never see it again. And then he saw them.
Just a few buildings down from their apartment t
here was a woman facedown on the ground, a growing pool of blood collecting around her head, and a man standing over her and twitching as though he’d stuck his finger into an electrical socket. Darryl didn’t care about any of that, and though he could hear Terry speaking next to him, he couldn’t understand a word he was saying.
Standing not ten feet from the twitching man was a little girl.
The girl looked as serene as the man looked pained, and Darryl knew that she was bending the poor bastard. Just past her, an old woman was on the phone, and suddenly everything made sense.
Darryl threw the truck into park and ran from it, while behind him Terry screamed, “What are you doing?”
Darryl ignored his friend, his eyes locked on the bitch on her phone as he flew toward the little girl. The old woman knew who he was—he could see that from her popping eyes—and the only way she’d know him would be if she was the one who’d invaded his head along with the girl. Darryl gave her an extra-stiff push for that effrontery. The phone clattered to the concrete stoop before the woman made it, and then they both bounced to the bottom of the stone steps. Darryl figured she was probably dead, given the ugly sounds she made on her trip to the sidewalk, but he could hear her moaning as he walked to the little girl. He guessed her moans would be only temporary.
Darryl wrapped his arms around the girl, hoisted her up like a junior-sized mannequin, and walked past the twitching man to the truck.
“You’re driving,” he said to Terry as he heaved the girl into the truck, then followed after her. Terry slid over behind the wheel but then fell still, as though he’d come unplugged.
