by Douglas Jern
Hudson shook his head, a tear rolling down his cheek. He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a gun. His hands were trembling.
“Leo, listen to me—”
“Why can’t you just let it go? I won’t tell anyone you set off the alarm, just don’t make this any worse than it already is, please!”
“I’m sorry, Leo,” said Zimmerman with a sigh. “But I have to do this.”
“Then you leave me no choice.”
Hudson raised the gun and assumed a firing position.
“Detective Zimmerman, you’re under arrest. Step away from the vehicle and put your hands on your head.”
“I’m sorry, Leo,” said Zimmerman again. “If you want to stop me, you’ll just have to shoot me.”
He turned his back on Detective Hudson, opened the door, and got in the car. Laura joined him, casting a furtive glance at Hudson, who was still standing where he was, gun in hand, aiming at the car. Even at this distance, she could feel him. His mind was overflowing with shock, anger, and sadness. She recalled the brightness she’d seen in him at the crime scene a few hours earlier. There had been some fear and apprehension in the face of danger, but also a desire to do good, to serve justice, and an admiration and respect for Zimmerman that shone like a lantern in the center of his mind. Now the lantern was dark, the glass shattered and the oil spilled. Laura knew Hudson would never see the world the same way after today. And that was partly her doing.
It’s all the killer’s fault. All this began when he used Jeffrey. He’s the one to blame.
She kept her head bowed down as Zimmerman started the engine and drove away from the parking lot. Though the anger numbed her guilt, she could not bear to look at the image of Detective Hudson in the rear-view mirror, shrinking rapidly as the car gained speed, until it finally disappeared.
Zimmerman drove in silence, turning this way and that, tracing a convoluted path through the city to throw off any pursuers. Laura sat in the passenger’s seat with her head against the window, looking out at the passing scenery without seeing much of it. The buildings around them got smaller and more spaced apart as they left the downtown area and drove through the outskirts of the city, until Zimmerman finally stopped at a parking lot outside a shopping mall. They’d been driving for over an hour.
“Well, we made it out, and no one’s tailing us,” said Zimmerman. “What now?”
Detective Hudson was still on his mind, but she could sense that he didn’t want to talk about what had happened back at the station. Laura felt the same way; better to look forward, keep their eyes on the road ahead. She closed her eyes, finding the anger once more.
“We track down the killer,” she said.
“Easy for you to say,” grumbled Zimmerman. “Do we even know what he looks like? His name? Anything?”
“I know what he looks like, and you know his name.”
He stared at her.
“What do you mean? How the hell would I know his name?”
“Someone told you,” said Laura, recalling the weasel-faced man in Zimmerman’s memory, and the terrible eyes she had glimpsed behind him.
“Who?”
“I’m not sure—your mind’s a little fuzzy at the moment—but I know he gave you the right name.”
Ignoring Zimmerman’s puzzled look, she closed her eyes and called up the killer’s face in her mind. Now she could put a name to it. She had no idea where he was, but that didn’t matter. Sooner or later she would find him, and then she would kill him. She opened her eyes, the face of the killer still lingering in her vision, and said:
“The killer’s name is Homer Moley.”
18:43 – Laura
The rattling of the old air conditioner was loud in the awkward silence. Laura perched on the edge of the drooping double bed, the witness and victim of many a secretive tryst throughout its days. Her hands were folded primly on her lap, and her eyes were taking in the room, mostly to avoid looking at Zimmerman.
It was a motel room like thousands of others, she assumed, the furniture worn and chipped, the wallpaper faded and peeling in places, a small, coin-operated TV with a label promising ADULT ENTERTAINMENT in garish capitals. The TV sat on a desk next to a mini-fridge with a sign taped to its door declaring it OUT OF ORDER. She supposed they should count themselves lucky that the AC was working, at least. Otherwise, the room would have been sweltering.
In front of the desk stood a battered wooden chair, which was creaking under Zimmerman’s weight as he leaned back, trying and failing to make himself comfortable. A furtive glance confirmed that he too was avoiding eye contact, and the embarrassment emanating from his mind told her all she needed, or wanted, to know.
They’d abandoned Zimmerman’s car at the mall parking lot and proceeded on foot for twenty minutes, neither of them saying much, until they came across the motel, a dreary hovel so dilapidated they were shocked to learn that it was open for business.
They had signed in using false names, Zimmerman with an awkward look on his face as he spoke to the manager, who at first had asked them how many hours they were staying. Zimmerman had mumbled that they would stay the night, and the manager had peered at them with rheumy eyes, his lips parting in a gap-toothed grin, then handed them their room key. They had chosen to share a room on Laura’s insistence. No sense paying extra for a bit of privacy during the circumstances. She regretted it immediately upon seeing the manager’s grin and the filthy thoughts in his head, which were too graphic and detailed to bear recalling. Feeling herself blush, she’d urged Zimmerman on, anxious to be clear of the lecherous man behind the grubby counter.
And then she had stopped dead in her tracks. Without thinking, she had watched herself stomp back to the counter, look the manager straight in the eye, and demand a fifty percent discount, both verbally and mentally. Anger had flared up within her, both at the manager for his improper behavior, and at herself for letting it get to her. The manager’s mind was ugly to behold, but she had persevered, projecting her demand with all the strength she could muster, feeling the sweat beading on her forehead.
Before today, she never would have dreamed of attempting something like this. While she had used her abilities to read countless people’s minds before, she had never even considered trying to influence them in any way. Not that the possibility hadn’t ever crossed her mind, but she had always felt that it would be unethical.
Things were different now, though. She and Zimmerman were on the run from the law and chasing an extremely dangerous murderer. They needed every edge they could get. Besides, the motel manager was a total creep.
The manager had stared at her like a dazed cow while she drove her mental message into his brain. Then she had felt it slide in, like a key in a lock, and saw the pattern of his thoughts change. The manager had muttered under his breath and handed back half of the money Zimmerman had paid. Laura had bitten down on her tongue to stop herself from smirking as she walked past a dumbfounded Zimmerman on the way to their room. It was a small victory, but it was hers. She was growing stronger.
“So,” said Zimmerman, breaking the silence and bringing Laura back to the present. “What do you know about this Homer guy? I think it’s about time you told me. What does he look like?”
“He’s tall,” said Laura. “I’d say about two inches taller than you. Average build, neither fat nor skinny. He’s bald, or maybe I should say he shaves his head, because he’s not that old. Mid- to late thirties, I’d guess. He has green eyes, and… and…”
She struggled to recall his features, but the memory of his eyes overshadowed all else. They had been ruthless, devoid of any human warmth. She had only seen one pair of eyes so awful before, in the face of her father as he swore her and Jeffrey to silence. A tyrant’s eyes.
“…kind of a non-remarkable face,” she finished lamely.
“Not much to go on,” remarked Zimmerman. “Any idea where we might find him?”
“No.”
“Any idea why he’d want to ki
ll your brother?”
Laura thought about the weird light and the twisting sensation she had felt as she ran towards Homer. Then she had been standing over Jeffrey’s body, holding the knife in her hand, remembering how she had stabbed him. But she knew that wasn’t what had happened. Homer had done something to her mind, and Jeffrey’s. If she had noticed it, then Jeffrey must have too. She didn’t know exactly what had happened that morning, but what if Homer suspected that Jeffrey had realized the truth?
“I think he wanted to cover his tracks,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“I think he framed Jeffrey this morning,” she said, then shook her head. “No. I know he did.”
“The beating. Vincent Morricone’s death. You’re saying Homer did that too?”
“Yes. And he used Jeffrey to do it.”
“And then he did the same thing to me?”
“Right. I think whatever his power is, it somehow affects the minds of the people he uses it on.”
“Some kind of mind control?” ventured Zimmerman.
“I don’t know. But he can make people do what he wants, or rather make it seem like they did.”
“Whoa, slow down a little,” said Zimmerman. “What do you mean?”
“The answer is in our memories,” said Laura. She got up from the bed and started pacing around the room. “Think about it. You said you made that phone call to the station around eleven-thirty, right?”
“That’s how I remember it,” said Zimmerman with a sigh. Laura could tell it still hurt him to think about it.
“Right. I, on the other hand, can remember two different realities. One where I tried to stop Homer from killing Jeffrey, and one where I was the one who did the deed.”
“And you’re sure you didn’t imagine one of them?” asked Zimmerman.
“Absolutely. I remember both, and so did Jeffrey.”
“But not me.”
“No, and I think I know why.”
“Because I’m not like you and Jeffrey.”
Laura missed a beat. She hadn’t expected Zimmerman to make the connection so quickly. Maybe he was getting used to the concept of telepathic powers and alternative realities already.
“That’s right,” she said. “And I don’t think any other people would remember, either. Jeffrey and I must be different, because of our gift. That’s why we realized something was wrong, and that the cause lay outside our own minds.”
Zimmerman looked at her with a blank expression. Behind his furrowed brow, his brain was whirring with activity, and he was coming to the same conclusion as Laura.
“So when you say Homer wanted to cover his tracks…”
“He knew Jeffrey was on to him and decided to kill him.”
“And he used me to call the station to get them to move Jeffrey to the Bunker,” said Zimmerman, a little annoyed at the interruption. “But why me? If he can make people do his bidding, why not use someone with more authority, like the captain?”
“I thought about that,” said Laura. “If Homer’s power works the same way as mine and Jeffrey’s, he would need to get close to the people he uses it on.”
“Are you saying he’s been close to me today?” said Zimmerman, cocking an eyebrow.
“It’s definitely possible. Did you see anyone suspicious today? Anyone resembling the man I described?”
Zimmerman sighed. “I see plenty of suspicious people every damn day,” he said. “Besides, you can’t be sure that Homer needs to get close to his victims.”
“But that’s what happened to me,” said Laura. “When he killed Jeffrey…”
“How do you know that was really him, though?” Zimmerman crossed his arms. “What if the bald guy you saw wasn’t Homer but one of his pawns? What if all this time he’s been chilling out behind the scenes, letting others do his dirty work?” He snapped his fingers, as if he had come to a groundbreaking realization. “Maybe that’s how he always operates. He lets others do all the work and then he himself takes the credit. Maybe that’s why people think he’s superhuman.”
“I’m sure it was him,” muttered Laura. “You didn’t see what I saw. Feel what I felt. It was him. And he is superhuman,” she added sourly. “I thought you would’ve accepted that fact by now.”
“Christ, this is getting us nowhere,” said Zimmerman and stood up. He walked over to the window and peered through the blinds. It was getting dark outside. “So, what’s our next move? You’re trying to track Homer down, right? The way I see it, we don’t have much to go on.”
“Yes, we do,” said Laura. “Your friend from the restaurant. The man who told you about Homer Moley.”
“You mean Joey? Forget about it. He said himself that Homer Moley is just an urban legend.”
“There’s more to it than that. I know there is.”
“No, you just think there is,” sighed Zimmerman. “Joey is a no-go, okay?”
“Why?” asked Laura.
“For starters,” said Zimmerman, “you and I are wanted people. In fact, I’d bet my life savings that if we turned on this glorified porn-box over here and tuned in to the news,” he pointed with his thumb to the small TV behind him, “we’d be greeted by our own mugs above a line of text saying something like ‘murderers at large—armed and dangerous.’ If we just waltz into town to see Joey, the cops will be on our asses in a heartbeat, and then it’s back to the slammer for the both of us.”
“Then we split up,” suggested Laura. “If the cops are looking for the two of us, we’ll have a better chance of avoiding them separately.”
“No. I’ll have a better chance. You will just end up getting caught anyway, owing to your lack of experience.”
“Not if I disguise myself.”
“With what? Unless you’ve got a complete change of clothes stashed somewhere, you’d have to buy new ones, and the last time I checked your wallet was still in storage down at the station.”
“I have everything I need to disguise myself at home,” said Laura. “I share a house with an actress, and she’s got about a thousand spare costumes, wigs, and whatnot just lying around. She is in the hospital right now, so the house will be empty apart from the cat. I’ll go get some clothes, and some cash just in case, and then I’ll go talk to Joey. What part of that plan do you have a problem with?” She could see the doubt writ large in Zimmerman’s mind if not on his face.
“I think you can tell what the problem is.”
She could.
“You think the cops are watching my house.”
“Correction: I know the cops are watching your house. You’ll be walking right into their hands like a sheep to the slaughter.”
“I need to get home.”
It was true; she needed the disguise, and the cash too. But that wasn’t all. She knew something Zimmerman didn’t. Brianna was not at home, but her belongings were. All of them. She just needed to convince Zimmerman to go along with her plan.
“I strongly advise against it,” said Zimmerman. He stood up, his knees creaking almost as loudly as the chair. “You know, I saw a vending machine outside. You want anything to drink?”
“You’re just going to drop this?”
“We’re not going to your house,” said Zimmerman and opened the door. “I think I’ve got another idea, though. It might be a long shot, but it’s something. I’ll tell you about it when I get back.”
He closed the door behind him. Laura sighed. Zimmerman’s idea, which she’d already glimpsed, amounted to little more than looking up a number in the phone book, presumably to find the owner of the phone he deduced Homer must have used to call the station this morning.
It was a logical step to take, but with Homer’s power in play, ordinary logic had been canceled until further notice. Joey was a much more likely lead in Laura’s opinion. She had sensed something from him, even through Zimmerman’s mind. A conviction that suggested something more than just an urban legend. Why else would Joey even bring up the name, by his own volition
no less? She knew there was more, that Joey hadn’t told Zimmerman everything he knew. If she could meet him in person, she would dig it up from his mind in no time.
The door opened, and Zimmerman walked into the room, clutching two bottles of mineral water in his hand. He handed one to Laura, who took it gratefully. She was thirstier than she’d realized.
“So, here’s the deal,” began Zimmerman.
Laura didn’t listen to what he had to say. She had a plan of her own.
19:54 – Zachary
The moth struck the fluorescent light with a faint ting, fell a few inches, then reoriented itself and flew into the light again. Zachary watched the clueless bug as it repeated its charge against the light, driven by whatever peculiar instinct it is that makes moths do what they do. The poor little dumbass never even stopped to think about just what about the light was so compelling.
As he watched the creature repeat its pointless exercise, Zachary thanked his lucky stars that he’d been born a human and blessed with free will. On the flip side, he’d also been blessed—or cursed, as it were—with the concept of boredom. He stifled a yawn. Moth-watching wasn’t exactly high-class entertainment, but there wasn’t much else to do while he waited. The cashier sure was taking his sweet time.
He looked at the clock hanging on the wall above the counter. It was almost eight. Only ten hours ago his life had been moving along on its usual tracks. He wondered what Leo was doing now. He hoped that he was off the case. Zachary still remembered the look on Leo’s face during their confrontation in the parking garage, and he never wanted to have to see that face again.
He pushed the memory away, turning his thoughts to the plan. Once the world’s slowest cashier came back, he’d rent a car, go back to the motel and pick up Laura, and then they’d make their way to her house. It’d be risky, but it was the best shot they had. He’d been against the plan to begin with, convinced that the phone number was a better lead to follow, but he found that he just couldn’t say no to Laura. She was a sweet little thing, he had to admit. Too young for him, of course, but he still felt an urge to protect her. Once she saw her house was under surveillance, she was sure to give up on her plan and go along with his.
