by Amy Cross
"Damn it," I mutter as I get to my feet and brush grass off my trousers. It looks like I'm going to have to get rid of Claire as soon as possible. This is the absolute last thing I need to be dealing with right now.
Joanna Mason
"So what's wrong with you?" Carver asks as we sit in a small pizza place near the hospital. "You were off sick for months, and if you don't mind me saying so, you still seem tired."
"Haven't you been through my files?" I reply, taking a sip of cola.
"The information in your files is very vague," he continues with a faint smile. "So vague, in fact, that I'm starting to think that you went through and removed anything that might point to the truth."
"You're paranoid," I tell him.
"And you're seriously ill," he replies. "Aren't you?"
"I don't..." Pausing, I realize that somehow this asshole has managed to outmaneuver me. I guess I under-estimated him, and although I still think he's a total pain, it's clear that he's a pretty good judge of character. "I had a medical problem," I say slowly, choosing my words carefully, "and now it's... at a point where I can return to work."
"You're cured?"
"Like a ham," I say with a smile.
"So you're completely healthy?"
"Sure," I reply, even though I'm aware that he still seems suspicious.
"You don't look healthy."
Sighing, I sit back as the pizza is placed on the table between us.
"My mother died when I was young," Carver continues once the waitress has headed back to the counter. "She had breast cancer, and it spread pretty much throughout her entire body. It was almost like an infestation. She fought it for a year, but then later, when she started to slide, she got this look in her eyes, or around her eyes... It was very distinctive, and I've rarely seen it since. People with cancer, they just seem to have this air about them. Sometimes I think that I've got this kind of radar where the disease is concerned." He stares at me as if he's on the verge of telling me that I have that same look in my eyes. "I don't mean to pry into your personal affairs," he says eventually, "but if there's something that might affect your performance, I think it would be good if I knew. Anything you tell me will only be between the two of us."
Picking up a slice of pizza, I take a bite while I try to work out what to say. I never expected this guy to be so direct, but it's as if he thinks he's really got my number and now he just wants to confirm his suspicions. No-one has ever managed to get past my defenses so easily, and I can't deny that I'm feeling a little wrong-footed.
"Are you dying?" he asks suddenly.
"Jesus Christ," I mutter, putting the slice of pizza down.
"I believe in being honest and direct," he continues. "I thought that you, of all people, would appreciate such an approach." He pauses. "I'll ask you again, Detective Mason. Are you dying?"
I open my mouth to tell him to fuck right off, but something holds me back. I try to come up with another response, but finally I realize that I've left it too long. The answer must be written all across my goddamn face.
He sighs.
"So what?" I reply. "Everyone's dying. Some people are just doing it faster than others."
"How long have you got?"
I take a deep breath.
"Years?"
Looking down at the pizza, I try to work out how I managed to get cornered like this. As much as I hate to admit it, Jordan Carver seems to be very good at finding the right buttons to push; somehow, without setting off any of my alarms, he's managed to get me to pretty much admit something that I've barely even admitted to myself. I want him to die in a very painful way, preferably as soon as possible.
"How long?" he asks again.
"Two years," I say eventually. "Maybe. That's kind of the best case scenario if I take all my medicine like a good little girl."
"And are you?"
"I'm looking after myself."
"What pills are you on?"
I stare at him, and although I know I could easily just lie and tell him I'm swallowing half a dozen different types of medication each day, there's some part of me that actually wants to tell him the truth, just so I can mess with his head. Besides, it's not as if he's going to be around for long; I'm pretty sure I can drive him out of the office within a few weeks, and since he's a stickler for routine, I'm certain he'd never spread any gossip about me. Either that, or he'll end up being promoted and soon he'll have forgotten that I even exist.
"The pills make me fuzzy," I tell him. "They mess with my head, like I'm not even myself anymore."
"So you've stopped taking them?"
I nod.
"What does your doctor say?"
"He doesn't know."
"So let me get this straight," Carver continues. "If you take the pills, you could last another two years, but your head would be... fuzzy? So, instead, you're not taking the pills, in order to keep your head clear, and now your life expectancy is down to..."
"I don't know," I reply. "Probably less than it could be."
"And that's a sacrifice you're willing to make?"
"I'd rather be myself for whatever time I've got left," I reply, "than try to live as long as possible while floating along in a daze like some kind of dumb-ass."
"That's a very interesting approach to the situation."
"Jesus," I mutter, looking over at the door and considering a sudden dash for the exit. I'm so riled right now, I'm having to focus on keeping still: my right foot is shaking slightly, and I'm starting to feel a little out of breath.
"I'm surprised you opened up to me so easily," he continues. "I guess I've just got that kind of face."
"Careful," I reply darkly turning back to him, "or I might tell you exactly what kind of face you've got."
He smiles.
"As fun as it's been to open up to you and share my deepest, darkest secrets," I reply, preferring to cut the chat off before it gets even more personal, "we have a case to be working on, and I'd like to get it solved before I'm in my bath-chair. Right now, the way I see it, we don't really have a lot of leads, and the few we have are kinda sketchy. Even if I'm right about the whole identity market thing, we still don't know who's behind it or where they might be storing their other prisoners."
"If they're selling identities," he replies, "then they need customers. They must be advertising their service somehow."
"There are websites that deal with stuff like that," I tell him. "It might be worth checking out some of the dark-net sites, just to see if anything seems to match."
"Do you know how to access those kinds of sites?" he asks.
"Of course."
"Now why doesn't that surprise me?" he replies.
"We still need something else," I continue, "and given the way things are looking, our best bet is to -"
Before I can finish, Carver's cellphone starts ringing, and I sit back and take another slice of pizza while he answers.
"We'll be there in a few minutes," he says quickly, before hanging up. "Angela's had a reaction," he tells me as he grabs a slice of pizza and gets to his feet. "She might have recognized the face of one of the men who kept her chained up. It looks like we might have had a stroke of luck."
John
As I pull up in the driveway, I can't help but think about the tracking device still blinking on the underside of my car. Claire has probably spent all day watching my progress via her laptop, and I guess she thinks she's got me right where she wants me; I've spent the day doing very ordinary, very mundane chores, but I'm worried that perhaps the device was on my car yesterday, in which case she might have noticed my drive out to the facility where the assets are kept.
"Dumb little bitch," I mutter as I switch the engine off.
The worst thing is, I'm paying for all of this. Claire's never managed to hold down even a basic part-time job, especially since her scoliosis got bad and she needed surgery, so the laptop and all of her spending money comes out of my pocket. It's absolutely insane to think about h
ow easily she's been able to start tracking me, but I'm determined to make sure that her little plan comes up short. It's a terrible shame, and I wish things could be different, but there's absolutely no doubt: I'm going to have to deal with Claire permanently. I just need to find the right moment.
Taking a deep breath, I realize that I need to be patient.
As I head toward the front door, I keep telling myself over and over again to just stay calm and make sure that I don't act in a way that might attract attention. The last thing I want to do is give Claire any kind of hint that I'm onto her little scheme, so I need to make her think I haven't got a care in the world. I'm usually pretty good at covering things up, so I just need to make sure that I don't panic.
Opening the door, I remind myself to stay calm.
The house seems to be completely calm and quiet. I wouldn't be surprised if Barbara has gone into town, so it's entirely possible that Claire is here alone, in which case I should perhaps take the opportunity to strike while I have the chance. Carefully pushing the door shut, I'm careful not to make too much noise as I set my briefcase down. Reaching into my coat pocket, I quickly find the pen-knife that I keep for emergencies. I walk over to the bottom of the stairs and look up at the door to Claire's room; all I have to do is go up there, sneak up on her, and cut her throat open.
I take a deep breath.
I hate the fact that I have to do this.
I wish I had another choice.
Taking another deep breath, I start walking upstairs.
"Surprise!" shouts a voice, and suddenly I'm surrounded by a gaggle of laughing, cheering people who immediately drag me back down into the hallway. Within seconds, they break out into song, and I stand in the middle of the crowd, completely shocked as they wish me a happy birthday. I want to ask them what the hell they're doing, but for a moment my mind goes completely blank. Given everything that's been happening lately, I can't even remember whether or not today really is my birthday. Is it possible that this is all some kind of horrific trick?
"Happy birthday, Dad!" Claire shouts, reaching out and giving me what appears to be a very genuine and happy hug. "You thought we'd forgotten, didn't you?"
"It did seem possible," I reply, before turning and realizing that some of the neighbors are here, along with a few of my wife's friends. It's a surreal experience, and I'm rather stunned as they lead me through to the front room and I find that a small buffet table has been set up, along with a tray of champagne. I try to work out whether it really is my birthday, or at least the birthday of this particular identity, but it's hard to concentrate.
"Happy fiftieth," says a familiar voice nearby.
Turning, I find that Barbara has come over to me. There's a look of sadness in her eyes, and it's clear that she hasn't forgiven me for the mistake I made last night, but at least she's making an effort. She's wearing the dress I bought her a few years ago on our trip to Austin, and she's pinned her hair up; her eyes, however, betray her skepticism, and I can't help but feel profoundly sorry for her.
"I had no idea you were planning this," I tell her, as guests push past in order to get to the food.
"We've been working on it for a while," she replies. "A few weeks."
"I'm not sure I deserve such a wild celebration," I continue, trying to strike up a normal, relaxed conversation. "This is rather over the top, although obviously I appreciate it very much. You really didn't have to go to all this trouble, though. I'd have been happy with just a quiet evening and some good food. And your company, of course."
"It's nothing," she mutters. "We just thought you'd like a bit of a party. That's all."
"Barbara..." I pause, briefly stunned into silence by the tears in her eyes. "I really am sorry about last night," I continue. "I honestly have no idea why I said what I said. It must have just been one of those random brain spasm things, you know? I don't know anyone named Sharon, and I was absolutely focusing on you while we were making love. The whole thing was just a horrible mistake on my part."
"Sure," she replies, clearly not convinced. "Don't worry about it, John."
"You don't believe me," I continue. "Barbara -"
"It doesn't matter," she replies, clearly trying to control her irritation. "You've given me your explanation, and that's going to have to be enough for me, isn't it? I mean, hell, you've given me a couple of explanations, so one of them has to be true, doesn't it?" She stares at me for a moment, and it's abundantly clear that she still thinks I'm keeping something from her. "I should go and talk to the guests," she adds, turning and hurrying away.
Standing alone in the middle of my own party, surrounded by a bunch of people who are my wife's friends rather than my own, I try to work out what the hell I should do next. This must be the most tense party in the history of the world, and I feel like just going upstairs and sitting alone until everyone has gone. Still, I figure I need to act like a good host and at least try to engage with the people who've bothered to show up, so I grab a glass of champagne and start making my way through the crowd. Unfortunately, I barely know anyone here, so when I reach the end of the crowd, I end up turning around and contemplating a return journey.
"Having a good time?" Claire asks, having quietly sidled over to me.
"Of course," I reply, taking a sip of champagne. "This is a wonderful surprise."
"I'm onto you, you know," she continues.
I turn to her.
"I know," she adds.
"Know what?" I ask, determined to wait and see what she actually means before assuming the worst.
"Everything," she says with a faint, devious smile. "Almost everything, anyway. Enough to put the rest of the pieces together." She stares at me for a moment, and I swear it's as if she's enjoying every second of this horror. "You think everyone else is so dumb, don't you?" she continues. "Especially me and Mom. You think we're just dumb little idiots who don't understand what you're really doing. That's fine, Dad... You just keep on seeing things like that if it helps you feel better about all the pain you've been causing people. Live in your own little bubble until it's too late, but what do you think all these people would think if they knew the truth about you?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, trying my best to sound innocent.
"Yeah," she replies with a grin, "you do, Dad. You really, really do. So do I. And the best part is, soon - not today, but soon - everyone's gonna know. I'm not gonna embarrass Mum in public, but you won't get away with this crap forever."
As she walks away, I'm left seething in the corner of the room, gripped by a kind of blind panic. I still don't know exactly what Claire has found out, but there can no longer be any doubt about the matter: she knows that I'm up to something, and whether it's linked to my business activities or my other families, I can't allow her to start causing trouble. I watch her smiling and laughing as she talks to one of the guests, and with a heavy heart I realize that there's only one solution.
For the second time in a week, I have to kill my family.
Joanna Mason
"We managed to sedate her eventually," the psychiatrist says, as we stand at the glass door and stare at Angela's prone form on the bed. "It wasn't easy, though. She fought until she was blue in the face. I think she thought we were somehow linked to those people. I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so scared."
"Exactly what happened?" Carver asks.
"I'll show you," the psychiatrist replies, leading us through to the next room. "Someone came from your department, Detective Carver, and asked if Angela could participate in a short interview to generate a composite image of the men who did all of this to her. I was a little dubious at first, but given the urgency of the case, I agreed to allow Angela to give it a shot, on the basis that I would sit with her at all times and end the session if I felt that she was suffering unduly."
"And this is what she came up with?" Carver asks, picking up a print-out of a man's face.
The psychiatrist nods.
"So what made her get upset?" I ask.
"I'm afraid that's my fault," she continues. "Once the composite image was complete, one of the nurses happened to note that it reminded her of a face she'd seen on the news a few hours earlier. I should have intervened, but instead I let Angela see the photo from the news broadcast, and that's when she experienced an extremely strong and very terrified reaction. It was difficult to get any words out of her, but based purely on the look in her eyes and the way she responded, I think there's a very strong possibility that the face from the news might be the face that she was trying to describe. It certainly acted as some kind of trigger."
"Show me," Carver says firmly.
Picking up a tablet computer, the psychiatrist opens a browser and quickly finds the page she's looking for, before turning the screen for us to see a slightly grainy image of a man's face.
"His name, apparently, is John Benson," she continues. "He's wanted in connection with a fire a couple of nights ago in which his wife, their two children, and a neighbor were burned to death. If the news reports are to be believed, the guy's a cold-blooded murderer, but I figure you guys probably know what's really going on here."
"Dawson's case," I mutter.
"Excuse me?" Carver replies, turning to me.
"Nothing," I say quickly.
"I know it seems rather incredible," the psychiatrist continues, "but I've honestly never seen a reaction like this before. As unlikely as it might be, I think there's a very good chance that this John Benson individual might be linked to the site where the women were being held."
"That's quite a long-shot," Carver says, interrupting her.
"No," I say, grabbing the tablet and taking a closer look at this John Benson guy's face. "I think there might be a connection."
