Jake Hancock Private Investigator mystery series box set (Books 1-4)

by Dan Taylor

  “What’s your earliest memory, Jake?”

  “Getting forced to ride the log flume. I remember crying, and my dad laughing. I was maybe about five or six years old.”

  “Exactly. I don’t suppose we can just ask my folks?”

  I decide on pretty much the same thing I wore yesterday and start undressing. “Like I said, everything could’ve been done to protect you. Becoming skeptical of who your dad is would be one hell of a way to repay them.”

  We’re quiet a couple seconds. I’m nearly dressed; I’d be surprised if Megan’s got her underwear on yet.

  Megan says, “So how do we avoid all this mess?”

  Scottie’s already working some of the puzzle out, I’m sure. But I’m not going to tell Megan that some maniac genius Scotsman is looking into her parents’ backgrounds, no matter how much she’s become resentful of them because of their secrets.

  “How long have we got before your parents come back?” I ask.

  “About an hour. Maybe more if Fredrick and Cedric don’t start crying.”

  “I’m going to make some calls. I have a few ideas, but nothing’s set in stone yet.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  Megan surprises me by revealing that she’s fully clothed, and looking good, too. I’m hopping around on one foot, still trying to put the first sock on.

  “How the hell did you get dressed so fast?”

  “I’m an actress, remember.”

  “You learn all that doing one ad?”

  She looks at me like I’m a dick. Rightly so, too. “I spent three years at stage school.”

  “That was a dick thing to say. Sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven. So what should I do?”

  “Just relax if you want.”

  “No way. We’re a team.”

  I like Megan’s attitude, but she’d only get in the way.

  “You can go out and get each of us one of those big-ass energy drinks you kids like to drink. It’s going to be a long day.”

  14.

  MEGAN COMES BACK with the small, wimpy kind. The ones that are supposed to give you wings. If these ones give you wings, the big-ass ones insert a RGM-84 Harpoon missile up your ass and light the fuse. But I thank her anyway. I notice that Megan’s can is lighter in color. She’s gone for the sugar-free variety.

  While she was away, I did some surfing. I started with research, finding out about the ability to “remember” and child development. I learned that long-lasting conscious memory doesn’t develop until a baby is between fourteen and eighteen months. This gives us at least eighteen months of untapped memories for our investigation. The only problem is accessing them.

  It only took a couple Google searches to find what I was looking for. And there’s one right in the area, about a twenty-mile drive.

  It’s a long shot, and if the situation were reversed, there’s no way I would go through with it. But Megan will play ball. It’s just a matter of persuasion.

  Time to start buttering her up. I say, “Why’ve you gone for the sugar-free one, Megan? There’s no way you need to watch your weight with that figure.”

  The ridiculous amount of caffeine must’ve kicked in already, because she reads me like a book. “What do you want me to do, Jake?”

  I sigh. “You’re not going to like it.”

  15.

  “YOU’RE RIGHT. I don’t like it—not one bit.”

  We’re traveling in my rental to the town of Hunterton. There’s a hypnotherapist there by the name of Carl Sleeperson, who specializes in age regression. His name sounds like it might be a pseudonym, apart from the Carl part. I phoned after finding him, had to triple what he’d usually charge so he’d take the appointment instead of watching his son play little league.

  “This could definitely work,” I say.

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “What’s the worst that can happen?”

  Now that I’ve asked, I can think of many things. But I don’t let on, just keep my eyes on the road.

  “I’m entrusting a total stranger with the complex workings of my mind. He could do something wrong, make me dance like a chicken every time someone says the words stir fry.”

  “This guy isn’t a showman. And he sounds like the real deal. I read the testimonials on his website.”

  “Let me guess. They’re all glowing reviews.”

  “From what I’ve read, this guy’s got a good record with this area of treatment.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve read any third-party reviews.”

  “They sounded genuine.”

  “I don’t know. This guy sounds like a quack.”

  We’re silent awhile.

  I say, “I’ll be there with you. If I suspect any wrongdoing or incompetence, I’ll pull the plug straightaway.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

  I concentrate on driving, but I can tell that Megan’s in a pensive mood. If it were me, I’d be pretty nervous right now.

  I take out my phone, having remembered that I promised to phone Mary back for a proper chat today. It isn’t the ideal time, with Megan sitting by the side of me. But hopefully I’ll catch Mary in a better mood.

  “I just need to make a call.”

  She picks up after a couple rings. “Jake, you imbecilic tosser.”

  I was wrong. I take the phone away from my ear, turn down the speaker volume, then return it.

  “Have you been watching the BBC America again, Mary?”

  “What do you want?”

  “I’m phoning for that chat, remember?”

  “Of course I remember.”

  “How are you today?”

  “I can’t choose between electrocuting myself in the bathtub and hanging myself.”

  “Neither is my vote.”

  “You don’t get one. It isn’t your body.”

  I decide to change the subject. “How’s Randy?”

  “I think he’s become a teenager before his time.”

  “How so?”

  “He’s locked himself in his room, refuses to come out.”

  “He’s just freaked out, is all.”

  “Pretty soon I’m going to have to start constantly wearing sanitary pads.”

  “That’s good. Have you watched any decent movies recently? I hear the new Steven Seagal straight-to-DVD release is his best work in years.”

  “You’re shit at making small talk, Jake.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that.”

  She starts to cry. I look at Megan, and she’s pretending not to listen in. “Don’t cry, Mare.”

  “Will you stop calling me that!”

  “What would you like me to call you?”

  Mary sighs. “Why do you phone me, Jake? Is it to make you feel better about being the one who hasn’t contracted this disease?”

  “I’m worried about you. And Randy.”

  She’s silent a moment, and I think she’s going to hang up. “Okay, I’ll play nice. How many pounds has Steven put on since the last movie?”

  I laugh. “I think he’s lost weight, this time. If you can believe that.”

  “You’re right. I can’t.”

  “Something funny’s happened to his eyebrows, too. He seems to have lost them.”

  This gets a laugh out of Mary. “Does he still have the ponytail?”

  “He does. But I’m pretty sure it’s extensions.”

  “How do you know?”

  “While he was delivering one of his painfully slow karate chops, I’m pretty sure I saw the track.”

  We laugh together, like when we were young. “We’ll have to watch it together. What are you doing tonight?”

  “I’m out of town at the moment.”

  “Oh.”

  “But I’ll be back on Monday. I don’t think watching Steven with me is what you want to be doing on a Saturday night, anyway, Mary.”

  “It isn’t.”

  “Okay. I’m going to have to hang up, now
. Keep your spirits up, Mare.”

  “You prick.”

  She isn’t angry, just playing rough.

  I feel pretty good about myself after the conversation. Pretty good job, Big Brother.

  Until she whispers, “Jake, there’s been a car parked outside my apartment block for the last day and a half.”

  Her doctor warned me about this. Paranoia is a common symptom of MS. I kidded myself that it wouldn’t happen to Mary.

  She says, “Should I phone the cops?”

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Just don’t. If it’s still there tomorrow, then phone. People drive places on Friday nights, get tanked, then pick the car up on Saturday all the time.”

  “But there’s someone sitting in it.”

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Mary. I gotta go.”

  “Okay.”

  I hang up.

  Both my sister and Randy are going through a hard time. When I’m done driving, I’ll order the Steven Seagal box set from Amazon for Mary and one of those wooden train sets Randy was playing with when I picked him up at the kindergarten.

  Megan says, “Was that your sister?”

  “Yeah. How did you know?”

  “How natural you were speaking. If you spoke to women more often like that, you wouldn’t still be single at thirty-seven.”

  “How do you know I haven’t chosen to be single?”

  “Everybody in this world needs someone, Jake.”

  Changing the topic, I say, “Are you nervous?”

  “I think we need to make a bathroom stop before we arrive there.”

  16.

  “IT’S JUST A house,” Megan says.

  She’s right. It is just a house. I’m surprised myself. I was expecting some dilapidated farm, dusty driveway, maybe a surly crow hanging around. I double-check the address.

  “Yep, this is the place.”

  I pull up to the driveway, and we get out of the rental. A man who I presume is Carl Sleeperson peeks through the curtain at us. I wave, but get nothing in return.

  “How much are you paying this guy?” Megan asks.

  “Enough so that I expect a bit of common courtesy.”

  As we walk up to the front door, it opens. “Welcome,” the man says.

  “You must be Carl,” I say, holding out my hand.

  “No, I’m Donnelly, his assistant.”

  He doesn’t shake it.

  I introduce Megan, and there’s a sparkle of recognition in his eyes. “I thought you were her,” he says.

  Megan shoots me a look—who is this guy? Then says, “How very perceptive of you.”

  “Please, come in.”

  Not only does he make us take our shoes off, but our socks, as well. He says something about energy flow and carpets and manmade material. I tell him mine are cotton, but replying to my childish comment is beneath him.

  Donnelly says, “Carl’s studio is in the basement. Why don’t you go down, Megan.”

  I go to follow her through the access door in the kitchen, but Donnelly blocks my route. “Mr. Sleeperson only works alone. No observers.”

  I don’t like this guy. On top of wearing what I think is a toupee, he seems to be pretending I’m not here. He’s also wrinkling his nose, pulling a face, as though I smell funny. I suppose it could be the bare feet.

  I say, “Megan’s not going down there alone. She’s my client, and while she’s paying for my services, I protect her.”

  “And what would your services be, Mr. Hancock?”

  “Right now, it’s making sure your creepy ass is legit.”

  He moves to block the doorway completely. “Mr. Sleeperson’s methods are highly secretive. No one other than his clients has ever observed them. Not even me.”

  I shout down, “Megan! Megan! I’m pulling the plug.”

  “Please, Mr. Hancock. This is highly unusual.”

  Megan comes back up the stairs. “What is it, Jake?”

  “This piece of shit won’t allow me to come down with you.”

  My harsh tone causes Donnelly to take a sharp intake of breath. “Well, I never.”

  Megan says, “Then it’s off.”

  We look at each other. It’s clear we’re at an impasse.

  We’ve driven a long way, but there’s no way I’m letting Megan go down into the basement alone. Not only do I not trust these guys, it’s vital to the investigation that I hear what memories—if any—Carl Sleeperson is able to extract from Megan.

  Ethical codes have one and only one Kryptonite.

  I pull out my wallet. “Here’s another $100 on top of what we agreed.”

  I expect Donnelly to at least feign thinking about taking it, but he takes the money quickly, counts it in front of me. If not for that skew-whiff toupee, he’d be a classy guy.

  We go down into the basement.

  Carl Sleeperson looks up at us. “Don’t mind him, honey,” he says. “He can be a little bit touchy.”

  I’ve no idea whether he addressed me or Megan, but I reply, anyway. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Donnelly’s not so much an assistant, but security. As you’d imagine, we get a lot of Froot Loops coming to the place and harassing us—skeptics, disgruntled relatives of customers, FBI agents. Donnelly’s a sixth dan black belt in Nippon Kempo, but he’s a white belt in customer relations.”

  On one side of the room there’s a leather sofa, much like one you’d expect to find in a shrink’s office. Next to it is a chair, on which Carl Sleeperson sits.

  He’s balding, with an overly sculpted goatee, and a wiry physique. As much as I want to dislike the guy, he puts me completely at ease.

  He says, “Why don’t you take a seat down here, honey.”

  He waves Megan over, puts his hand on her shoulder to relax her, guides her down onto the sofa.

  “You ever been hypnotized before?” he asks, then laughs.

  Megan does, too. Says, “No.”

  “I know you haven’t, honey. Not even most people who think they have have.” He turns to me. “And you, handsome, you need to stand over there.” He points to a small table, on which is a pair of large over-ear headphones connected to an iPod, and a sleeping mask.

  Pre-empting my question, he says, “If you’re going to listen in, you need to listen to that music and put on the mask while I put her under. We don’t want you getting hypnotized, too.”

  “Why did Donnelly say that no one has ever witnessed your methods except your customers?” I ask.

  “You handed some money over to Donnelly, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, now you’re a customer.”

  Before turning back to Megan, he says, “Cute outfit, by the way. You’ll have to tell me where you got that gorgeous sweater before you leave.”

  I’m going to tell Andre I need a raise.

  Before walking over, I notice Carl Sleeperson’s credentials are displayed on the wall. He’s been certified by the US Hypnosis Authority.

  “Good luck, Megan,” I say

  “Thanks, Jake.”

  I put on the headphones and sleeping mask and press play. The music is Steppenwolf. I had him down as more of a Barry Manilow kind of guy.

  After a track and a half, I receive a tap on the shoulder.

  He instructs me to sit on a chair by the side of his. He must’ve got it out while I was rocking out.

  I don’t know what the hell Carl Sleeperson did to Megan, but I would have loved to have seen it. She’s under, like she’s been given a general anesthetic. When I look at her eyelashes, they’re not flickering like a bad actor’s when they’re pretending to be dead or sleeping.

  In a soothing voice, he says, “Megan, this is Carl.”

  Megan speaks, “Hello, Carl.”

  This is bat-shit crazy.

  Carl says, “You’re in a warm, dark, safe place, Megan.”

  I whisper, “That’s what she said,” and Carl turns to
me, shushes me.

  “I want you to feel yourself falling, but it’s a good kind of falling. You’re falling within yourself. Deep within your psyche. You feel yourself getting younger. You’re skipping back through the years. Whenever something happens that excites, saddens, or angers you I want you to stop. To grab on to the rope, observe yourself doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

  There’s silence a moment and, if Megan were a stranger, someone picked out from an audience, I’d be sure that this was a big pile of horseshit.

  Then Megan speaks, “I’m in college. I’ve just got back from a dorm party, and this other freshman, Jeffery Howton, asked to come back to my room.” She giggles. “I’ve never been naked before in front of a boy, apart from that time at high school with Paul Weeler—”

  Carl interrupts her, “Okay, Megan. I want you to let go of the rope. Okay, honey, let go.”

  Megan giggles.

  Then says, “I’m falling again.”

  “That’s good, Megan. You just keep on falling.”

  Megan stirs in her seat, her face going through a range of emotions, until she settles on what I can only describe as a face she’d pull if someone punched her right in the kidney. When she speaks, her voice is childish, “It’s Christmas, and Daddy got me an Action Man, but I wanted a Barbie doll.”

  “Fuck,” I say.

  Carl ignores me, this time. “Why’s it important that you get a Barbie doll instead of an Action Man?”

  Clearly Carl slept through Gender Roles 101.

  Megan says, “I think Daddy wants me to be a tomboy. But Mommy likes me just the way I am.”

  “Both Mommy and Daddy love you the way you are, honey.”

  I make a move-it-forward gesture with my hands, and get the fiercest look Carl can make with that gentle face of his.

  Megan says, “I know that, silly.”

  “Let go of the rope anytime you like, Megan.”

  Megan goes through the face transformations again, and then when she starts to speak, only the odd word is intelligible. “I wove you Mommy and Waddy.”

  We’ve hit the mother lode. If that isn’t the voice of a two-year-old, I don’t know what is.