by Amy Cross
"Based on what?"
"Based on the face," I continue, "and based on the fact that both cases seems to involve someone who likes burning places to the ground. Remember that ruined barn that was found near the Wash family home? I'm pretty sure that someone doused that place in gasoline before setting it on fire. Now it looks as if, just a short time later, someone did more or less the exact same thing to this house. It's not impossible to think of a situation in which John Benson might need to extricate himself from his family life in a hurry, especially if all his pretty ladies managed to crawl away into the night. The guy probably panicked."
"Still," Carver replies, "we can't assume that they're linked." He pauses. "Is this another example of your fabled intuition, Detective Mason?"
"Sure," I reply, passing the tablet to him. "If that's what you want to call it, then go ahead, but to me it just seems like common sense. Unless you've got any better leads for us to be following, I want to consider the possibility that this John Benson guy might be linked to whatever happened to these women. There's no need to narrow our investigation down just yet. There's two of us, so why don't we go in two different directions?"
Carver pauses, and I can tell that he's not entirely convinced.
"Fine," he says eventually. "It's seems a little coincidental, but I'm willing to run with it until something better comes up. I'll leave you to liaise with whoever's covering the Benson case, Detective Mason."
"Absolutely," I reply with a faint smile. Dawson's going to be so pleased...
"I'll focus on the other victims," he continues. "Angela can't be the only one who's able to answer our questions. Once we get them all talking, we should be able to correlate their stories and start building up a much better picture of what was really happening. It's still possible that these girls are unreliable witnesses, and I want solid evidence before I start banging on doors." He looks down at the photo of John Benson. "Maybe some of the other women might recognize this guy."
"I'll be in touch," I reply, heading to the door.
"Detective Mason," he calls out.
I turn to him.
"Good job today," he adds. "I've got to be honest, I thought you'd be more of a handful, but you proved me wrong. It seems some of the more lurid stories about your behavior might not be true after all. I look forward to working with you some more."
"The feeling's mutual," I reply, before stepping out into the corridor and making my way toward the elevators. The truth is, I hate the thought that Carver approves of the way I work, and I was only so goddamn cooperative today because I wanted to set him off-balance; now that he thinks he understands me, I can start ignoring him completely and get back to the way I prefer to work: alone, with occasional attempts to bug Dawson and bounce some ideas off him. As far as this case is concerned, Jordan Carver is completely irrelevant.
John Benson's the guy we're after. I can feel it in my gut.
Epilogue
22 years ago
"At least this one isn't crying," Leonard mutters as he leans into the back seat of the car and carefully lifts little Tommy Symonds out of the pile of blankets. "Most of 'em are bawling their heads off when they get here, almost like they know what's happening."
"Don't get sentimental," I remind him.
"I'm just saying," he continues. "Compared to the others, this one's like a little angel."
"He seems to be remarkably calm," I reply, catching sight of Tommy's face in the moonlight. Leonard's right: this child, more than any of the others we've gathered here, seems strangely placid, and I can't help but wonder if perhaps there might be something wrong with him. Grabbing the documents that his mother left behind, I quickly look through the papers before realizing that there's no mention of any kind of abnormality. "Huh," I mutter. "I think he's just a quiet one. I suppose they can't all be exactly the same."
"I'll get him settled in," Leonard says, turning and carrying the baby across the cold, dark yard.
After taking a moment to double-check Tommy's paperwork, I make my way to the office and grab a bottle of whiskey from on top of the filing cabinet. Pouring myself a glass, I head back out to the yard and wander over to the barn, where I find Leonard carefully placing the new arrival into a crib alongside all the others. It's a strange sight, at once both touching and tragic.
"I've been thinking," I say after a moment. "As we gather additional assets, it might be wise for us to branch out and acquire a second site."
"Seriously?" Leonard replies, turning to me. "I thought you always said it was too much of a risk to start spreading the operation?"
"I've changed my mind."
"And where the hell are you gonna get the money?"
"I've got some cash stored up," I tell him. "It's worth investing early on in order to make sure that we can grow the operation over the next couple of decades. This is a long-term project, and any little errors or short-cuts at the beginning could grow exponentially over time until we have a real problem." I pause for a moment as the child gurgles in his crib, but he falls short of actually crying. "Just think," I continue. "One day, when Tommy's all grown up, we can sell his identity to anyone who fits the bill and who can manage to draw the cash together."
"Are you sure we have to keep 'em alive until then?" Leonard asks.
"Of course," I reply. "In a couple of years' time, we'll have to take Tommy to get some shots at the hospital. It's important to ensure that he has a paper-trail so that, when it comes time to sell his name, he's fully included in all the systems and databases."
"I still think it's too much of a risk," he replies. "What if one of them gets away?"
"Then find some other way to immobilize them," I tell him. "I don't know, hobble them, or break their backs, but not until we're sure we don't need to take them to any appointments. Wait until they're older."
"And then what?" Leonard continues. "When someone comes and buys up this kid's name, what are you gonna do with the original?"
"That's the point at which we can dispose of him," I reply calmly, before looking across the darkened room and spotting several other babies sleeping in their cribs. "There's no need to be squeamish," I continue. "As long as we stick to the plan, nothing can go wrong."
"Have you ever killed a man before?" he asks.
"No."
"So how do you know you can do it?"
I pause for a moment. "I'm quietly confident," I say eventually. "It's simply a matter of freeing the mind from distractions, avoiding too many unpleasant ruminations on one's actions, and getting on with the job. A gun or a knife... Whatever, it doesn't matter. For the money we're going to make from these assets, I can certainly do whatever's necessary. I suppose fire might be one of the best methods."
"I hope you're right," Leonard replies as we both head to the door. "I also hope none of 'em start crying tonight. I'm trying to train 'em so they don't think crying gets 'em what they want. They're basically like dogs, you see. If they cry and you come running, it's like you're training 'em to cry so they can make you appear. By only going to 'em when they're not crying, I reckon I can get 'em to see things my way."
"Whatever you feel works best," I reply, heading back out to the yard and waiting while Leonard locks the door to the barn. "I'm fully aware that you've got the toughest job here," I continue, turning to him. "In some respects, anyway. At least I get to meet people and have a little excitement when I'm acquiring these children. All you get to do is hang around and watch out for trouble."
"And how long do you think it's gonna be until we can make a return on our investment?" he asks.
"For most of them," I reply, "we'll have to wait until they're in early adulthood. I suppose it might be possible to sell one or two before then, but I'm not counting on it. Adult identities are where the real money can be made, and that's why we're in this for the very, very long haul." Heading over to my car, I stop and glance back at him. "You're not having any doubts, are you?" I ask. "Sitting out here night after night, it wouldn't be di
fficult for stray thoughts to enter your head."
"No doubts," he mutters. "I just find it hard work on such a large timescale. Most of my previous jobs have been in and out, boom, that kind of thing."
"Try to get used to this way of working," I reply, glancing back at the barn and imagining Tommy sleeping in his new crib. "We've got a long wait ahead of us," I add, "but I promise, one day people are going to start coming to buy the identities of Tommy Symonds and all the other babies. We just need to hold tight and make sure we don't get lazy. Can you do that, Leonard?"
He grunts and heads to the office.
"I'll take that as a yes," I reply, climbing into the driver's seat before pulling the door shut and looking over at the barn. "Goodnight, Tommy," I whisper, unable to stifle a faint smile. "Here's to a very profitable relationship."
Part Five
The Paper Man
Prologue
Five years ago
"Daddy?" she asks, standing in the doorway. "What's wrong?"
At first, her father doesn't seem to notice her. He's sitting at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, and he hasn't even bothered to switch the lights on. He has a cellphone nearby, though, with the screen all lit up, and until a moment ago he seemed to be talking to someone. Now, however, he turns and stares at Claire for a moment, with a startled look on his face.
"Nothing's wrong," he says as he composes himself. "Is your back hurting?"
She shakes her head.
"Then go back to bed," he tells her. "You need all your strength for the exam tomorrow."
A tinny voice can be heard shouting from the cellphone.
"Who are you talking to?" Claire asks.
"No-one," he replies, before quickly shutting the cellphone off. "It was just a wrong number."
"You were talking to them, though."
"I was being polite," he replies. "It's always important to be polite, sweetheart, even if it's late at night and someone's called you by mistake. After all, you never know if later on some day that person might recognize your voice and be in a position to give you a hand with something. We all need to think about karma, right?"
Wrinkling her nose as she thinks, Claire eventually turns and reaches up to the light switch.
"Don't," her father says firmly.
Claire pauses and turns to look over at him, while keeping her hand next to the switch.
"Just..." He pauses. "Go to bed. It's almost midnight. Do you want to be all tired and grouchy when the doctor looks at your back?"
"I don't mind," she replies. "Why don't you want the light on?"
"I'd rather just sit and think," he replies with a sigh. "Where's Mom?"
"In bed."
"So how come you're awake?"
She shrugs.
"There's nothing to worry about," he continues, forcing himself to smile. "I just had a bad week at work, that's all, but I'll bounce back."
"Did you get fired?" she asks.
"Fired?" He smiles. "No, sweetheart, of course not. No-one would ever fire me." He pauses. "You don't seriously think I could ever get fired, do you? I mean, Claire... I'm the best insurance salesman in the country. Better than that, I'm..." He pauses again. "You have no idea how brilliant I am. Maybe one day you'll understand."
"Were you traveling all this time?"
"Of course," he replies. "You know I have to be on the road a lot, Claire. It's just how my job works. The people who need insurance, they're out there but they don't come to me, so I have to go and find them. I go to their homes and talk to them about what they need, and then I give them the right forms so they're covered properly." He pauses, waiting for her to go back to bed and leave him alone. "You'd like it if I was home more, wouldn't you?" he asks eventually.
She stares at him.
"I'd like it too," he continues, "but someone has to bring the money home, right? I mean, if you wanna go out there and start selling insurance, I'll be glad to sit around in my pajamas and be a kid." He pauses again, still smiling even though he's painfully aware that Claire doesn't seem to be responding. "So until young girls start entering the workplace," he adds, "I think we'd better keep things as they are, and I'll go out to work while you stay home and help Mom. Is that a deal?"
Wrinkling her nose again, Claire keeps her eyes firmly fixed on her father, but she doesn't say anything.
"Go on," he adds. "Go back to bed. I've got to go up too. Your Mom's gonna be wondering where I've got to."
Nodding, Claire turns and heads back to the bottom of the stairs. She starts going up to her bedroom, but after a moment she stops and listens as she realizes her father has started talking to someone again on the cellphone. Holding her breath, she sits on the stairs and tries to eavesdrop on the conversation. In order to hear better, she has to lean around the corner a little, and finally she's just about able to make out her father's figure in the dark kitchen.
"I told you," he says, sounding stressed, "I've got three buyers lined up. All we need is for one of them to come through and then we'll have hit our quota for the year. Hell, all three might turn out to be up for it, in which case we're swimming in money."
He stops speaking, and Claire can hear the faint buzz of a voice coming from the cellphone, although she can't make out what it's saying. The voice sounds agitated, though, and a little angry.
"Exactly," her father continues. "You've really gotta learn to control your nerves, Leonard. It pisses me off when you call me up late at night, moaning about things that haven't fucking happened yet. It's not your job to worry about stuff like that, so just back off, okay? You deal with your side of things, and I'll deal with mine, and the world can keep turning happily. Deal?"
The buzzing voice replies for a moment.
"Just stick to the normal routine," her father adds wearily, "and try to -" Before he can finish, he happens to glance toward the door, and for a fraction of a second he makes direct eye contact with Claire.
Leaning back out of view as quickly as possible, Claire stays frozen in place for a moment. She knows her father looked directly at her, but she hopes that since she's in the darkened hallway, he might not have seen her.
She waits.
She can hear her heart beating.
"I'll talk to you tomorrow," her father says after a moment, his voice suddenly sounding strangely cautious. "Goodnight, Leonard."
As quietly as she can, Claire makes her way upstairs and hurries to her room, before stopping once she's through the door and turning to listen for any sign that her father might be coming to tell her off. Moments later, she hears him walking to the bottom of the stairs, and as she peers back out from her room she can just about make out his shadow on the wall. He's clearly looking up to see if she's still awake, so she hurries across her dark bedroom and gets back under the covers. Although she knows she should go to sleep, however, she can't help wondering about that weird conversation she just overheard.
What she wants to know, more than anything else, is the truth about whatever her father's hiding. She knows there's something, even if no-one else has realized. After a moment, she hears her bedroom door being gently pushed open. She stays completely still, until finally she hears her father going back downstairs, leaving her alone in the dark room with a racing heart.
Today
Joanna Mason
"Morning, perky," I say, putting my hands on Dawson's shoulders from behind and forcing his chair around until he's facing me. I can see that he's not in the mood for any of this, but I figure I can make him get in the mood. "How are you doing on this fine morning?" I continue. "You drunk enough coffee to be vaguely human yet?"
"What do you want?" he asks dourly.
"Why do I have to want anything?" I ask, taking a step back. "I just happened to wake up this morning and realize that, gosh, the world is a wonderful place, and we should all try to embrace the positives whenever possible. And then I thought about the fact that I really haven't seen you much over the past couple of days, so I was hop
ing you'd be here when I arrived." I take a deep breath, determined to project the happiest possible countenance. "It's good to see you, Mike," I add. "I just wanted to be open about how I feel. That's what the world needs: more people who say what's really on their minds."
He stares at me.
"That was a joke," I add.
"Ha ha," he mutters.
"Come on," I continue, "you know I was just messing with you, right?"
"Whatever you want," he replies, turning back to his computer, "I came into the office to do some paperwork, not to get involved in one of your dumb games."
"I'm not playing a game," I reply, even though I'm painfully aware that I've already started to become far too annoying. "It's about the Benson fire," I continue, figuring that I should get straight to the point before he turns around and tells me to fuck off again. "Carver and I have been looking into that other case, the one you ditched 'cause you thought it was too difficult, and now we're starting to think that it might be linked to the fire you're covering." I pause for a moment, waiting for him to reply. "That's Jordan Carver, by the way," I add. "You know, my current partner. In a professional sense, anyway. We're just a pair of new pals investigating a case together. Someone should make a detective show about us, maybe starring -"
"I already gave Carver everything I've got," he replies, interrupting me. "You need to go see him if you want to look through the stuff. It's all cataloged and annotated, so it shouldn't be a problem."
"Can't I look through it with you?"
No reply.
"Why not?" I ask.
"Because we're not working the case together," he replies. "Remember? Carver's your partner now, so he's the one you need to be talking to and making jokes with and all that other crap."
"You're no fun these days," I reply, hoping to get him to at least crack a smile. "What happened, Mike? Bad night at home with the vagina from hell? I've always wondered about Elaine's vagina. Is it like a Sarlac? Does it have teeth? I always imagine it as some kind of big round pit with barbed teeth, and maybe there's a small skiff floating nearby, preparing to execute people by -"
