She nods. “Hard to argue those points. So we go see him, and then what? How does that help us? How does that help you?”
“I don’t know yet, but I’ll figure it out.”
Which is only partially true. When I called Eaton, I heard the vulnerability in his voice. The tinge of fear. I even told him I’m coming for you, as if I’m some kind of vigilante.
Maybe I am. Maybe this is the true me that’s been building my whole life. The program enhanced my emotional awareness, but right now, there’s only one emotion that’s spreading up through my chest, into my throat, infecting my brain. It’s the rage I felt earlier with Eaton.
All I want to do right now is confront him. Stand right in front of him, stare into his eyes, ask him what he knows. He won’t want to tell me, I think.
Good.
Then I get to make him.
Forty-Three
Clara
Imagine a pain so throbbing, so pervasive, consuming your entire being. It won’t go away. After a while, perhaps you become numb to it, grow the smallest bit accustomed to the misery. But not really. And then someone gives you a shot of morphine, and like that, it’s gone. You don’t just feel a return to normal. You feel superhuman.
Now imagine that instead of pain, what you feel is a compulsion to kill yourself. And the morphine is a sudden memory. A real memory. And just by remembering, that compulsion you’ve felt for a long time is wiped away in an instant.
You don’t want to die anymore. You want to live. Really live. Perhaps for the first time. I don’t feel just superhuman. I feel like a god.
I’m sitting on my bed at the Hotel Jerome, and it’s early in the afternoon on a day when I never expected to live past morning. I’m in a different room, of course, because when I checked out this morning, I couldn’t imagine I’d be returning. The front-desk clerk was surprised to see me return.
“Change of plans,” I told him, smiling. It felt so different, so odd. I was smiling. I went up to the room, giddy. Opened the shades, let the sky fall all over me. What a day. What a beautiful, eternal day.
Then I flipped through my journal, toward the back, the place where I stuck the one thing that now was more important than anything. Jake’s business card. Jake. You made me take your card. You knew it would matter somehow, didn’t you?
The call went to voicemail, and I’m sure my message was borderline incoherent. But the point was simple.
I remember. Come to me. I want you to remember too.
Because if I can feel like this, maybe he can as well. I hope so. I want this for him. I want this feeling for everyone in the world.
It all happened the moment I opened the door of that maintenance shed. I’m clutching my new memories, though now bits are fuzzy. It doesn’t matter. I’m going to live. I want to live. A gift I didn’t even know was a gift.
I’m ashamed I ever wanted otherwise.
The inside of the shed was dark, the only light coming from the door as I slowly opened it. Fear rippled through me at first, as if a collection of dry, dusty bones was bound to spill around my feet. But it was an ordinary shed. Tools on walls, an old snow-removal machine. Tarps and hammers, everything layered in a dirty film of time and neglect. The smell of citronella, overpowering. I thought that must be my imagination, but there it was. An entire metal shelf of bottles filled with citronella oil, and next to them a dozen or so tiki torches, the kind you’d see at a luau. So out of place in the mountains, but there they were.
Seeing the tiki torches brought everything back.
A little boy, his face streaked with the red glow of a late-summer sun. Eyes vibrant and wide, a touch of mischief.
He’s so clear. His name was Jacob.
And me, just a little girl, no more than seven. I remember Jacob was a year older than me, and every day, we had chores at the school, and for this particular chore, Jacob and I were always paired together. The headmaster called us the mosquito patrol, for it was our job to refill the citronella torches each evening at dusk.
In the summer, we ate our dinners outside. Picnic tables just outside the small school building, surrounded by mountains. A circle of torches surrounding the tables.
We weren’t allowed to light them. Usually that was a job for a grown-up. And, when lit, how the torches would glow, flames dancing, black smoke rising, the acrid fumes keeping the biting bugs away.
Jacob and I sometimes spilled the oil, and it was a smell that seemed impossible to wash off our skin.
It’s…
It’s fading.
I didn’t stay at the school; I had to come back and contact Jake. Navigating to my car was a bit difficult—I was deep in the woods and got turned around more than once. But finally, I made it, making note of the way so we can return together. I’ve been back at the hotel for a few hours, and ever since, I keep trying to picture myself back at the shed. Try to pull myself back to the things I remembered, but some of it is already beginning to wash away.
There were only a few students. The school was our home. Two teachers, maybe three.
Müller.
Yes, that’s right. Headmaster and Headmistress Müller.
They are a vague notion to me. I can hear his voice but not picture his face.
This book is yours, Clara. Make sure you take your vitamin before you read it.
The vitamins. They made me start feeling strange. And the pool. The swimming pool where we had to hold our breath underwater. Hold until we very nearly blacked out.
It was all for our potential.
And then I see them again. The Müllers. That’s who they were.
The bodies in the bed.
Was it—
There’s a knock on my hotel door.
Jake.
Forty-Four
The second I open the door, I curse myself for not checking the peephole. Such a basic reflex, but in my excitement, I just assumed this was Jake at my door.
The man standing in front of me doesn’t appear to be hotel staff. No uniform. Maybe management? But…I don’t think so.
He’s tall. Rail-thin. Older than me, but hard to tell by how much. Graying hair, sunken cheeks, stubble like a fungus. Nicely dressed, but not in a thoughtful way. He’s holding a slim leather briefcase in his right hand.
I sense an immediate malevolent energy to him. Not on a high level, but subtle, nearly undetectable. Like radiation that settles in your bones, biding its time to eat you from the inside out.
“Miss Stowe?” he says. His voice is higher pitched than his looks would suggest.
My grip on the door handle is firm.
“Yes.”
“My name is Eaton. I’m sorry to bother you, but I have some pressing business to discuss with you.”
“I don’t think so,” I say. “You must have the wrong person.” Though he just said my name.
“I promise you I don’t.”
I take a deep breath. The last time I had an interaction with an odd man, he gave me a book about death and a vial of unlabeled pills.
“I just want to be left alone.”
“I want to give you what you want, Clara. I just need to ask you some questions first.”
“Are you the police?”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
“I’ll explain everything in short order.”
And there it is. That vague and untouchable sense of familiarity. I think I’ve met this man before, which, unlike with Jake, instills fear rather than intrigue. I have a sudden feeling there’s something very dangerous in that briefcase of his. Perhaps a knife, long and serrated. Or hypodermic needles, filled with an array of poisons.
“I just want to be left alone.”
He stiffens his posture and seems to grow six inches in the process. A monster animating.
“I’m afraid I must insist.”
Landis.
He’s holding a gun.
I should have checked the peephole.
Forty-Five
Jake
My plan was to confront Eaton in his apartment, shove him against the wall, threaten to snap each and every one of his brittle bones until he tells me how he’s involved and exactly what, the fuck, is happening to me. Then maybe still break his bones.
Elle quickly pointed out how bad a strategy that was. Not just criminal, but absurd. If he’s truly part of everything, she argued, surely he’d protect himself, especially after being told I’m coming for you.
We compromised. We agreed to go to his apartment, ring him from the lobby, and if he isn’t home, we’ll try to break in and see if we can find anything. If he is home, we’ll see how receptive he is to a visit.
I promised Elle I wouldn’t attack him unless threatened myself. But I was sure as hell taking the gun we have with me.
As we enter Alexander Eaton’s apartment-building lobby, I admit to myself I don’t have any real proof he’s part of everything. Maybe he really was surprised by my accusations during the phone call. Perhaps he’s indeed just a lonely man with a lot of money and a need for a memoir.
But I don’t think so.
Sometimes you just have to go with your instincts, though at the moment, mine might be dangerously uncalibrated.
The security guard is here. He recognizes me, nods. Reaches for the phone.
“Here to see Mr. Eaton?” he asks.
“I, uh…yes. We are.”
“Your name again?”
“Jake Buchannan.”
The man dials.
“He’s not answering.”
“He just called us five minutes ago,” Elle says. “He’s expecting us.”
I look at her, wondering what she’s doing, then realize she’s trying to get us access without Eaton being home.
“You’re welcome to take a seat, and I can try again in a couple of minutes.”
I look to Elle. She nods.
We wait on a stiff, backless couch. A few minutes pass, and I’m aware I’m sliding my wedding ring up and down my finger again.
“Can you try again?” I ask.
He tries. No answer. “Like I said, I don’t think he’s home.”
“Can we just go up and knock?” Elle asks. “I’m sure he’s there.”
I look over at her, unsure what she’s thinking.
“Well, that’s the point of phoning, isn’t it?” the guard says.
“Maybe his phone is off.”
“I thought you just talked to him.”
“Look, I’m certain he’s home.”
“I’m not supposed—”
If not for the sudden presence of a FedEx worker hauling a dolly’s worth of boxes into the lobby, I could have pictured an ineffectual back-and-forth for another minute until we were asked to leave. But the guard looked over at the FedEx guy, and there was a look of mild disdain on his face, as if the two men were professional enemies who engaged in some extremely low-stakes battle every day.
The guard waved us off. “Fine, you can try.”
“Thank you,” I say, moving quickly to the elevator before he can change his mind. Elle is right behind me.
We stop on Eaton’s floor, then walk at a slower pace as we approach his unit.
“This is it,” I say.
I stand there, thinking, but taking no action.
“Are you going to ring the bell, or do we just stand here?”
We’re whispering. It all seems so ridiculous. What am I going to say if he answers?
I ring the bell. My stomach knots. I have my messenger bag with me, gun inside. I’m wondering if I should take it out.
Wait thirty seconds. A minute. No answer.
“Okay, I think we’re good,” Elle says. She digs into her purse and pulls out a small tool.
“Did you notice a security system when you were in his apartment last time?”
“No. I mean, I don’t think so. You think you can get us in?”
“Fifty-fifty chance. If not, we leave. Or we might get in and an alarm goes off. Then we leave.”
I scan the hallway, looking for cameras. I see none, so I take a step back from the door.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
She steps up to the door, huddles over the knob. I don’t even watch. Instead, I turn my back and keep scanning the hallway, left to right. Right to left. The first minute feels like an hour. The second minute a full day. I’m waiting for a neighbor to come out, ask us what we’re doing.
“It’s an older lock,” Elle says, her voice barely audible. “Which is good. But it’s not cooperating.”
“Maybe we should just go.”
The ding of the elevator, the soft whoosh of the doors opening. I turn back to Elle, because facing away from her appears too suspicious. But I chance a half tilt of my head down the corridor.
The security guard. He must be second-guessing his decision to let us up. He walks toward us, not fast, but with purpose.
“We gotta go,” I whisper.
“Hang on.”
He’s getting closer, and my pulse races as I wonder what he’s going to do when he reaches us. He’s not a cop. Doesn’t have a weapon. I can’t imagine how he could detain us. But I think about the man I killed. The body in that small, white room. My DNA swimming in the piss in the corner, my fingerprints on the doorknobs. Not to mention that the murder weapon is on me, in my bag. I don’t want any possibility of being questioned by the police.
“Elle, come on.” I give a light tug on her arm, which she shrugs off.
I’m just about to turn to the guard, tell him he was right and that Eaton’s not answering, when the door flies open.
Elle looks up into the apartment and says in a loud voice, “Alex, we were worried about you.” She then lifts her arms as if to hug the imaginary man and steps inside. I turn to the guard, who is now less than twenty feet away but too far to actually see into the apartment. I do the first thing that comes to mind, which is to lamely give him a thumbs-up.
He narrows his brows but says nothing. I step inside the apartment and shut the door behind me.
“I don’t hear an alarm timer,” she says, scanning the walls. “No keypad. I think we’re okay, unless he has a silent system. Guess we’ll find out if the police come kick the door in.” Elle steps in and swivels around. “So, now what?”
“I don’t know. But let’s be fast.” I twist and turn, looking at everything and nothing at the same time.
She walks into the living room. “It’s like a morgue in here.”
The apartment is characteristically dark, though the idea of turning on a light makes me nervous. But not Elle. She immediately snaps on the overhead can lights, which hit me like prison-yard spotlights.
“What are we looking for?”
“I don’t know.” My instinct is to check his bedroom. Isn’t that where secrets are kept?
“Ten minutes,” she says. “Then we leave. Let’s split up and search.”
“Should we be worried about fingerprints?”
“Yes, we should be. Be aware of what you touch, and we can wipe down when we leave.”
“I’ll look in the bedroom.”
“Fine,” she says, then heads down a short hallway and disappears into the first room on the right.
I continue down the corridor. Three more doors, all closed. I check the first one. Small bathroom. Second door. Linen closet, almost completely devoid of any linen. I reach the last door. I assume this is a bedroom. Who lives alone and closes the bedroom door when they’re away?
The thought of opening th
e door fills me with the memory I had when I was last in this apartment.
The bedroom.
Orange, glowing numbers from the bedside clock.
12:34.
Blood. So much blood. On the sheets and walls.
The bodies, mangled and ribboned.
A little boy curled on the floor, crying in horror.
I put my hand on the knob. The brass feels warm to me, warmer than it should be, as if recently gripped by a hand.
Or maybe it’s all in my mind.
I begin turning the knob as slowly as I can, exhaling along with the motion.
Just as I’m about to open the door, Elle calls to me from down the hallway.
“Jake.”
I turn. She’s poking her head out of the office doorway.
“Come see this.”
I feel a tinge of relief that I don’t have to open the bedroom door, at least not yet. I release the handle and head back down the hallway, then into the office. As in the rest of the apartment, the shades are drawn. Here, the only light comes from a brass desk lamp, heavy and ornate, the kind I’d expect to see in an old public library.
There’s a large wooden desk, maybe teak, the top of it covered with the wounds of carelessness and time. Pushed a few feet back from the desk, a chair. Simple and black, modern. Aside from the desk, chair, and lamp, there’s no other furniture in the room.
The walls are bare. Not even nail holes where pictures once hung.
No computer, no cables.
A stack of papers in a manila folder on top of the desk.
“What’d you find?” I ask.
“Look at the top sheet.”
A photocopy of a drawing. I know the artist. Ink scratches, thousands of them. Taken all together, impossibly, they form the image of an exotic bird in a tree.
This has to be a page from The Responsibility of Death. But not from my version.
I shuffle through the pages, seeing more copies. I don’t take the time to read any of them, but I do find a photocopied sheet from my version. Page twenty-six. The boy is now an adult but not yet king, and one of his friends whispers in the man’s ear. A simple rock makes a formidable weapon.
The Dead Girl in 2A Page 18
