Dead and Gone

by Tina Glasneck

“How the hell do I know?” Kevin answered, exasperated. “I just found out about all of this, too! But there is so much we don’t understand—so much that no one seems to understand—about these Flickers, that I think you should assume, until proven otherwise, that what your mother said is true. Maybe it’s like blood transfusions, somehow.”

  “What? You’ve lost me.”

  “Yeah, you know, blood transfusions,” Kevin said excitedly, becoming more animated as he warmed to the subject. “You know how, if you receive a blood transfusion from someone who is not the same blood type, your body will reject the blood? Maybe it’s something like that.”

  “But we’re twins,” Cait replied. “Twins share the same blood type, don’t they? That scenario would be impossible with my brother and me.”

  Kevin shook his head. “I’m not trying to suggest this Flicker thing is exactly the same as rejected blood transfusions. I’m just saying that there are plenty of scenarios where two seemingly compatible people are found to be medically incompatible, for reasons that may not be readily apparent. Organ transplants would be another example. Sometimes the human body rejects a donated organ for reasons the experts don’t even understand.

  “Let’s face it,” he continued. “As far as we know, nobody outside your own bloodline even knows these Flickers exist, so it’s not like they’ve been the subject of any scientific research. We have no idea what sorts of personality traits might be associated with them. Until we learn otherwise, I think we have to treat everything Virginia Ayers just told you as being true, if for no other reason than the risk of assuming otherwise is so extreme. I don’t want to see you put in danger.”

  “There’s still no proof,” Cait mumbled stubbornly. “Where’s the proof? How can I just take her word for it?”

  “Where’s the proof?” Kevin asked incredulously. “Did you really just say that? Her story is the proof. The proof is in the fact that this woman turned her life upside down and destroyed her marriage—Christ, her husband was so devastated he ended up killing himself—to protect her newborn children. The proof is in the hundreds of years of family history she related. That’s all the proof I need, and it damn well should be all the proof you need, as well.”

  “But still…”

  “There is no ‘but still.’ You can’t pick and choose what you want to believe, especially when it’s so important. If you accept that Flickers are real—and you know they are—and if you accept that your birth mother has the same ability—and you know now that she does—then you have to accept what she said about your twin brother also, at least until you see proof otherwise.

  “But,” he continued, holding his hand up to stop her from interrupting. “When we get back to Tampa, we can sit down and do an Internet search on your family history. If what Virginia told you is true, there should be plenty of archival evidence, in the form of newspaper reports and the like, of the murders to back up her story. Don’t you agree?”

  “Probably,” Cait admitted grudgingly.

  “Not probably, definitely. So let’s make a deal.” The taxi turned a corner and pulled to a stop in front of their hotel. “If we find out through these online searches that there is a history of twin deaths in your family, then you forget you ever learned of the existence of your twin brother. If it turns out the whole thing is some bizarre tale concocted by your long-lost mother because she’s just loony, I will help you do everything possible to locate your brother. That seems reasonable, don’t you think?”

  Cait sighed deeply and opened her door. “I suppose.”

  “Hey, look on the bright side,” Kevin said with a smile.

  “There’s a bright side?”

  “Of course. We’ve been so wrapped up in trying to figure out what the hell went on at your mother’s house that you didn’t even notice we almost got killed six or seven times on the ride back here. That’s something, right?”

  The cab driver fixed Kevin with a stare, but his scowl turned to a tight-lipped smile when he received his tip. Apparently in Boston insults were forgivable if the price was right. Kevin slammed the door and the taxi pulled out into the heavy traffic almost immediately, serenaded by a chorus of angry horns.

  Cait watched the car pull away, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, lost in her thoughts. Kevin took her gently by the elbow and led her inside.

  24

  Milo squinted at the computer keyboard, typing carefully into the search engine, anxious to see the results for his entry: “Granite Circle, Massachusetts.” He had jotted down the address to be sure he didn’t forget it, but it was burned into his mind like it had been put there with a branding iron. He was determined to find the fucking little bitch from his strange vision and teach her a much-needed lesson.

  Milo knew there was no logical reason for the burning hatred he felt every time he thought about the pretty young woman roughly his own age. As far as he knew, she had never done a thing to him and, in fact, they had never met. He was certain of that. The only two times he had ever seen her were inside his own head.

  But he could not help how he felt, and he was determined to place everything else in his life—including his current project, Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker—on the back burner until he could settle this mysterious score with the beautiful unknown woman.

  To that end he sat in a utilitarian plastic chair in the Boston Public Library, perched in front of a gigantic desktop computer that had probably been brand-new sometime around the turn of the century, checking search engine results for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts.” Milo couldn’t afford a computer of his own, and in any event, had no need for one. The World Wide Web was of little interest to a man who spent the majority of his time in the shadows, moving from dark alley to dark alley, living his life outside the realm of so-called “normal” society.

  Milo felt uncomfortably exposed in the library. The lighting seemed harsh and unnaturally bright, causing the shadows cast by his body to stretch away at odd angles, their edges knife-blade-sharp on the chocolate brown of the worn carpet. The soft murmur of muted voices should have been soothing and reassuring, but instead seemed fraught with danger, as if at any moment someone would leap from between rows of hardcover volumes and point accusingly, shouting, “That’s him! That’s the man who mutilated and murdered my wife/girlfriend/daughter/top-earning prostitute!”

  But this was the only way to accomplish what needed to be done, short of traveling through the state checking telephone books to see if any of the towns in their coverage areas contained a street named Granite Circle, so it was the library or nothing.

  He looked around nervously. No one was paying any attention to him. He relaxed slightly and ran the second vision through his mind again, concentrating with particular emphasis on the young woman’s recitation of the address. “7 Granite Circle.” He had replayed it a hundred times in his head, each time willing the stupid bitch to recite the name of the town or city as well, each time infuriated when she did not. She was fucking worthless, and this was just more proof of that fact.

  The search results popped onto the monitor’s screen after a length of time so absurdly short it seemed impossible the damned computer could have done its job. In just .22 seconds, less than a quarter of a second, Google claimed to have examined its entire database and returned over six million results. Ridiculous.

  Milo made a conscious effort to tamp down his frustration and anger. Focus. That was the watchword for today. Focus, get the answers he was looking for, and then he could get the hell out of Dodge, also known as the Boston Public Library, and escape the smothering sensation of claustrophobia threatening to overwhelm him.

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand and examined the search engine results. Six million, two hundred sixty thousand results for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts”? When he started clicking links, though, Milo relaxed, even managing a tiny smile.

  The first link provided the answer he was seeking: there were two.

  Two towns in the Commonwealt
h of Massachusetts contained streets named “Granite Circle.” How the search engine managed to bombard him with more than six million other things it claimed might be a match for “Granite Circle, Massachusetts” Milo had no idea, nor did he care.

  The town of Sandwich contained a Granite Circle, and so did the city of Everett. Now we’re getting somewhere, Milo thought. This was going to be easy, almost absurdly so. Sandwich was a sleepy little village on Cape Cod, east of Buzzard’s Bay and south of the Mid-Cape Highway, roughly in the vicinity of the bicep on the crooked arm forming the cape’s outline on a map.

  Everett was the polar opposite of Sandwich. Located just north of Boston—not far from the neighborhood housing Milo’s current residence, in fact—Everett was a hardscrabble, blue-collar city filled with traffic and people, aging factories and mills, high unemployment and a kind of determined refusal to knuckle under to an economy that had left the city behind years, if not decades, ago. If Sandwich was latte, Everett was black coffee left on the burner too long, with muddy grounds lining the bottom of the cup.

  And that was all. Out of 351 cities and towns making up the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, only two contained streets with the name, “Granite Circle.” Milo sat back and replayed the two visions in his mind yet again, hoping to unearth some detail he could use to ascertain which Granite Circle he was interested in. His line of sight during the second vision, the one that took place outside the older woman’s home, had been toward the three people having their strained conversation and away from any neighborhood landmarks or other characteristics he might have been able to use for easy identification.

  Still, there had to be something. The house itself had seemed worn and bedraggled, old. It appeared beaten down by decades of neglect, maintenance delayed either by lack of funds or lack of interest, more likely a product of the bleak environs of Everett than the leafy suburbia of Sandwich.

  And there was something else. Although Milo had not been able to see anything of interest during the vision, that did not mean he hadn’t been able to hear anything. As he caressed the second vision in his mind like a lover stroking his partner’s skin, Milo began to recall sounds, almost unnoticed by the long-time city dweller; things that told him the meeting had taken place in an area surrounded by people. A lot of people. Thousands upon thousands of people, all packed into a steaming concrete jungle.

  The honk of a horn from a frustrated driver, the rumble of a big diesel engine, the constant white noise of city life that was curiously absent in the suburbs. It was all there in the vision, just waiting to be noticed.

  And now Milo had noticed it.

  And he knew. Everett it was.

  He picked up the small notebook he had brought on the mistaken assumption that he was going to have multiple cities and towns to remember, pushed the chair back on the carpet, and stood to leave. He relaxed, feeling almost normal for once, thankful he had not been observed despite the fact he might have been the worst dressed person in the library. Scratch that. He definitely was the worst dressed person in the library.

  He took one step toward the door when it hit.

  His eyes rolled up into his head and he stumbled forward, crashing face-first to the floor like an Olympic diver hitting the pool. His nose mashed the thin carpet and he rolled onto his side, the motion accomplished more by momentum than by planning. He struggled to his knees, blood cascading down his face, and fought hard to maintain his equilibrium.

  Milo Cain was caught in the grip of another disturbingly intense vision, his third within the last eight hours.

  This time when it finally faded, Milo was prepared. The overwhelming feeling of lethargy he had experienced following the first two visions was there this time, too, but he was ready and tried to fight through it. It seemed unlikely the Boston Public Library would allow him to nap on their floor. He blinked a few times to ease the watering in his eyes brought on by the throbbing in his nose, then wearily pushed himself upright, using his sleeve to stanch the flow of blood.

  And a hand grabbed his elbow. It was a small hand but one with a surprisingly firm grip. Milo turned to see a fussy-looking bespectacled man pulling him back into the chair he had so recently vacated. The man was chubby, not overweight, exactly. The word “portly” sprang into Milo’s head unbidden. A vague suggestion of a mustache colored the man’s upper lip and his thinning salt-and-pepper hair had been combed meticulously across his head, the act serving no real purpose other than to alert everyone around to the fact he was going bald.

  “Please have a seat, sir,” the man insisted, his voice high-pitched and nasally. He sounded exactly like he looked. “You nearly fainted,” he explained, apparently on the off chance Milo was somehow unaware of that fact.

  Milo allowed himself to be eased to a sitting position. He had to admit it felt pretty fucking good to get off his feet. Goddammit, he was tired.

  The nasally man continued. “Don’t worry, the EMT’s have been called and will be here soon.” His faced wrinkled in an unconscious display of disgust, clearly displeased at having to touch Milo, his manner belying the caring tone of his words.

  Milo jerked his elbow out of the man’s grip. “EMT’s?” he said as if he didn’t quite understand the meaning of the word. “I don’t need any freaking EMT’s, I’m just fine.”

  He knew exactly what the fussy little man was thinking: drugs. This street bum had come into the library seeking a comfortable place to enjoy his high and had suffered a bad reaction. The call for medical assistance had undoubtedly been made more to get the bum with the dirty, smelly clothes the hell out of the Boston Public Library than out of any real concern on the fussy man’s part for the bum’s welfare.

  “They’re on their way,” the fussy man said as if he hadn’t heard Milo. “Don’t worry, you’re going to be fine.” The man turned and walked across the spacious lobby to the glass front door, clearly hoping to look out and to see an ambulance with flashing red lights screeching to a halt in front of the building, followed immediately by two competent professionals rushing into the library to take control of the situation.

  The moment the guy reached the front door, Milo lifted himself off the chair and followed. He shouldered past the smaller man, juked left when he sensed a hand snaking out to grab his arm, and was gone, bounding down the granite steps with an energy he did not feel.

  Behind him the man sputtered and complained to no one in particular. “You need medical attention, do you hear me? Get back here, the EMT’s will be along any second. Hey! Do you hear me?”

  On the sidewalk the pedestrians paid no attention to him. He might as well have been invisible. Every head turned toward the fussy little man—presumably the curator, or head librarian, or whatever the hell the guy in charge of the library was called. Milo was grateful for the distraction.

  In the distance an ambulance raced straight at him, the sound of the siren growing steadily louder. It blew past and then turned toward the library. Might as well slow down, Milo thought. You’re going to have nothing to do when you get there, unless of course the fussy little man strokes out. He smiled. It seemed like at least a decent possibility.

  At the end of the block, Milo turned and melted into the crowd, anxious to get home. He had work to do.

  25

  Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker was turning into a problem. Milo had had such ambitious plans for her, but now, with all of his attention focused on the mysterious bitch in Everett, Rae Ann had become nothing more than a risky loose end.

  He supposed he could leave her tied up—or, more accurately, taped up—in her chair, immobilized in the middle of his living space while he went away and took care of business. That was the obvious choice.

  But doing so came with some serious downsides. He had no idea how long it would take to accomplish the things he wanted so badly to do to the Everett bitch. That in itself wasn’t a problem, but every hour he was away was an hour the unattended Rae Ann could potentially wriggle free of her bonds and either escape o
r remove her gag and begin screaming for help.

  And if that happened, everything would fall apart. Rae Ann would be rescued and the police would come and stake out the tenement. They would wait for him. The police weren’t terribly bright but they could be very patient. When he returned, no matter how long it took, he would be captured and arrested, and after that all of his previous murders would fall into place like dominoes.

  Milo had no doubt about how it would go down, even if he kept his mouth firmly closed and admitted to nothing. The pigs would search the tenement with a fine-tooth comb, evidence would be discovered that would lead the authorities to the remains of one or more of his previous playthings, and DNA or some equally inconvenient piece of scientific mumbo-jumbo would lead to life imprisonment or worse. Milo didn’t think guys like him got the death penalty in Massachusetts, but he wasn’t certain and damned sure didn’t want to find out.

  So leaving Rae Ann alive was just too risky.

  Milo knew what he had to do: eliminate the risk.

  It was a goddamned shame. He had worked hard to get Rae Ann here, and had only just begun to enjoy her. But Milo Cain was nothing if not a big-picture type of guy. The annoying little bitch who had suddenly begun haunting his visions was more important than Rae Ann the Schoolgirl Hooker, Milo knew that as surely as he knew his own name, and as long as he concluded his business with Rae Ann properly, Milo reasoned he could always find another hooker to play with later.

  Milo sighed. Life was so unfair sometimes. He could still enjoy himself while eliminating the risk Rae Ann represented, but the days and days of bliss he had been anticipating were not going to happen; at least not right now and not with Rae Ann.

  He glanced up at his guest from the corner of the room where he sat leaning against the wall, legs crossed in a modified lotus position. Her pretty eyes returned his gaze skittishly. He wondered what she was thinking, and whether she knew her fate had just been decided.