The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (4 page)

“Fucked,” Chris muttered. “Fucked, fucked, fucked.” “Say again?” his radio squawked.
Shit.
He grabbed the radio, saw the button had stuck again.

“Sorry about that, Doreen, my mic.”
“I hear that language again, I’m going to wash your mouth out.” Chris grinned. “What? I said ‘trucks.’ ”
“Yeah, trucked, trucked, trucked.”
“Anything happening?”
“All quiet in our little corner of heaven.”
“Spectacular,” he said.
Maybe he needed to shake things up some. A tour in the army,

he’d be able to write his ticket. It would mean dodging RPGs for a couple years. But that might be better than writing drunk tickets till his eyesight gave, or hanging at the Ten Pin, watching the same girls get older. Chasing jihadis might not be the same as chasing criminals, but it beat the hell out of the alternative.

They’d post him in Afghanistan or Iraq, of course. But what the hell. Get out, see the world. Hear a muezzin’s call. Fire a fifty-caliber. Learn Arabic. Maybe even be an MP. Police work with military technology, ooh-rah. Not that he wanted to chase American soldiers, but he’d be after the ones who went crazy, the kind in the news stories, the ones who raped girls or killed innocent shopkeepers . . .

5
EXT. ABBOT KINNEY STREET—EVENING

As Emily Sweet walked away and the credits rolled, Daniel leaned back. His head throbbed, a wicked headache coming on.
The show meant something. It had to. Emily talking about life being scary, about the need to face things—it was exactly what he’d been wrestling with all day. Like she could read his mind.
Sure. You’re getting messages from the television. Tinfoil hat ready?
It was just his subconscious mind. Desperate for comfort, it was fixating on the first woman he’d seen. A mother/whore thing, sweet Emily Sweet promising to save him, promising to guide him. Daniel shook his head, then regretted it as pain ice-picked him. He eased himself flat, rubbed at his neck.
You’re losing it, man. If you even had it to begin with.
Daniel closed his eyes and imagined Emily beside him, putting cool rags on his forehead, whispering in his ear, telling him that this would pass. That he was a good guy whose sins weren’t worse than anyone else’s. That he had nothing to fear.
That it was all going to be okay.

A silver BMW M5, with California plates.
Could it be? Could it be the same car?
Chris stared through the windshield, willing himself to remember. It had been one of the Teletypes, he knew that much, came in a couple of days back. Doreen printed them all and put them in a wire basket in the break room, next to the coffee machine, the idea being that coppers could check them during downtime. Of course, no one but him did; after all, how many fugitives ended up in Washington County?

They got Teletypes from all over the country, and the details tended to blur, but this one he’d paid more attention to, coming as it had from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department. Homicide if he recalled right, though mostly he’d noticed the car, a sweet ride, BMW M5, silver. Just like one parked here, sporting California plates.

What was the guy’s name? It had had an upscale ring to it, he remembered. A little German or Dutch sounding, maybe. He’d know it if he heard it.

So call Doreen, have her dig out the Teletype and read you the info.
Yeah, and if he was wrong, endure a week of jokes, the others calling him Serpico, prank calls on the radio, no thanks. He could drive there himself and check it, but that meant half an hour to Machias, maybe twenty minutes if he ran on sirens the whole way, and likely find the guy gone.

You’d know the name if you heard it . . .
Chris grabbed his radio and climbed out of the cruiser. Northern darkness blanketed the world. He could see his breath as he walked for the door. It wasn’t much of a lobby, but the Pines wasn’t much of a motel. The desk was empty, and he rapped on it. “Hello?”
There was movement behind a beaded curtain, and a woman came out, her expression wary, the way he’d noticed a lot of people got when they saw a cop. “Yes? Help you?”
“I’m Deputy Chris Dundridge,” he said. “Washington County Sheriffs.”
She nodded.
“That BMW in the lot. Do you know who it belongs to?”
“What’s this about?”
“Police business.”
“Don’t you need a warrant?”
“You don’t want a dangerous guy staying here, do you?” He paused, then smiled, said, “Besides. No one needs to know you told me.”
She hesitated, then said, “He checked in yesterday. Paid cash.”
“What’s his name?”
The clicking of keys. “Hayes. Daniel Hayes.”
That was the name, Chris was sure of it. His blood sang. This was the lucky draw he’d been waiting for. Capturing a fugitive for the LASD would move his resume to the top of the pile. He forced himself to keep the joy off his face, nodded, said, “Room number?”
“Seven. But listen, I don’t want—”
Chris ignored her, started down the hall, unsnapping his weapon as he went. His fingers tingled. The numbers on the doors ran upward, one, two, three. The floor was linoleum, scuffed from a thousand pairs of hunting boots. Should he call it in? Four, five, six. Regulations were clear, but he didn’t want anyone else claiming credit. Here it was, lucky number seven. The light was on under the door, and he could hear the TV faintly.
The man was in his room. No need for backup.

The ice machine rattled like a spoon grinding in a disposal. Daniel leaned on the button, watching cubes drop one at a time, the racket doing nothing for his headache. But half an hour with an ice cloth wrapped on his eyeballs should. Then grab a last supper, turn in, and tomorrow, make some decisions.

The machine grudgingly hawked up a handful of cubes at once. Good enough. He yanked open the heavy metal door and stepped back into the hallway. Cradling the ice bucket, he rounded the corner. Twenty feet away, someone stood at the door of his room. A cop, broad-shouldered and tough-looking.

Daniel froze. What was a cop doing here?
Before he could think of an answer, the guy took a deep breath and drew his gun, Jesus,
drew his gun
, and with the other fist pounded hard enough to rattle the door in its frame and yelled, “Police! Open up.”
Daniel stood with one foot in the air and his mouth hanging open and his head pounding.
“Washington Country Sheriffs. Open the door!”
And in his head, her voice, whispering.
They’re coming for you.
“Goddamnit,” the cop yelled, “open this door, Daniel!”
At the sound of his name, his knees went wobbly and his hand slipped on the ice bucket. It spun as it fell to the floor, the cubes tumbling out, pinging against the linoleum, skittering silver marbles.
The deputy whirled at the sound. He was just a kid, maybe twenty-four, face pale and pupils wide. For a fraction of a heartbeat their eyes locked. Then the gun started to come up.
Fight-or-flight took over. Daniel turned, heart pumping fire. Planted one hand on the corner of the wall and pushed himself into a run.
“Freeze!”
Do what he says. What are you doing? Stop!
Only he didn’t, he went faster, feet slamming into a sprint, headache buried under a surge of adrenaline. For some reason, he found himself thinking of the painting in the lobby. He hurled himself down the hallway. His hands hit the door bar and sent it flying open with a mule kick. Cold evening air that smelled of sap. Behind him, he heard pounding footsteps, and then a screeching sound and a curse. He risked a glance over his shoulder, saw the cop frozen mid-fall above the dropped ice, legs kicking cartoon circles.
Daniel ran.
Pine trees pressed against the brick wall, needles scratching at his hands and face. He blundered forward, dark shadow and darker ground, then burst around the edge of the building, half-expecting to find the whole police force, lights spinning and guns pointed, but there was just the one cruiser. He sprinted for the BMW, pinballing off the pickup next to it. Jammed a shaking hand in his front pocket, yanked out the keys too fast and lost his grip. He could hear the cop yelling again, not at him, calling for backup, saying words from television shows,
officer needs assistance
, and
all units
, and
suspect on foot
, all muffled as Daniel bent to scrape his fingers across the gravel,
come on, come on, the keys had to be
—there. He snagged them, beeped the alarm, piled in, and was slamming the stick into reverse as the cop came around the corner of the building. Daniel floored it, spinning the wheel hard, then threw it into first without braking. The car jerked to a stop and then surged forward, ten cylinders screaming. There was the crack of a gunshot behind him, holy
fuck
, then another, and ahead a narrow strip of grass with two pine trees and the sad roadside sign for the motel, and he swung away from the trees and clipped the sign, sparks and plastic bursting, block letters flying into the night, a scraping sound and a momentary feeling the car was going to get stuck, and then the tires bit blacktop and lurched and squealed and caught. US-1, two lousy lanes, his heart on fire, running like every frightened thing, the quiet calm part of himself screaming, telling him to stop, asking him why, Jesus, why was he running?
Because he’s chasing.
The BMW shredded the highway, up to 80 in seconds, the road a black ribbon. The nerves in his fingers and feet seemed to connect through the car to the road itself, like he was surfing the blacktop, flying over it, topping 110 now, and behind, far in the rearview, red and blue lights. He had a head start, but the cop was coming fast, others no doubt bearing down from all directions.
Think, goddamnit, think!
He tore around a curve, houses and garages and bridges and trees all blurring into a smear of late-night evergreen, darkness pressing down. Half a mile ahead, a narrow lane pulled off.
Any animal can run. It takes a man to think.
He bit his lip, clenched his fists, and turned off the headlights. Took his hand off the stick long enough to reach the settings knob for the onboard computer system. Twist, press, Options, twist, press, Lighting, twist, press, Disabled. The running lights and headlight halos snapped off. Night swooped down. Gripping the steering wheel with one hand, Daniel worked the clutch and downshifted into third gear. The engine screamed and bucked, the car actually hopping, rear tires skidding. He almost hit the brakes by instinct, stopped himself just in time. The car swerved wildly, but he kept it on the road, forced it into second, the needle plummeting, down to twenty by the time he hit the lane. He spun hard right. The car slewed sideways, the tires leaving the ground.
The world ahead of him was geometries of darkness: triangles for trees, a rectangle that might be a barn. He desperately wanted to turn on the headlights, but didn’t, just forced it into first gear and took a chance, aiming at the maybe-barn. The side of the building was fifteen feet away when he jerked the parking brake. The BMW hopped and groaned and shuddered to a stop.
In the fallen silence his heartbeat was impossibly loud. His hands didn’t shake, they vibrated. He took them off the wheel, knit the fingers together as though he were praying. Holy fuck. Holy fuck. Holy fu—
The cop blew by on US-1, a frenzied fury of blue and red and Dopplering siren, big as the world and then gone.
Daniel’s breath came ragged. He clenched his fists together till the knuckles creaked. Jesus. Why had he run?
More important, why was he chasing you?
Who are you? Who
were you
before you woke up on that beach?
He sat for a moment, as long as he could make himself. Then he turned on his headlights, put the car in gear, and pulled back out onto the road. Outside the windows, the silhouettes of pines loomed, shaggy forms cut from a cloth of stars. Despite the punishment, the BMW seemed okay.
The cop hadn’t doubled back yet, but he would. Time to get off this road. Daniel turned at the next intersection that looked like it might go somewhere. Out here, the police wouldn’t have many resources—no helicopters, no roadblocks. The key was to get some distance without blundering into them.
He punched up the onboard navigation system, zoomed out on the map.
How come I know how to do this, how to turn off my running lights, but I don’t remember—
later. He scanned the map, eyes flickering between it and the road. If he went north instead of west, he could pick up US-9, ride that up to I-95. With a little luck, he could clear the state in four, five hours.
The gun. He’d left the Glock in the hotel.
Want to go back for it?
He pushed down on the accelerator.
An hour and a half later, Bangor was a glow on the horizon. A sign welcomed him, announced that the population was 31,473; another pointed toward Bangor International Airport. Following the arrow, he found himself in a stretch of low-slung chain hotels, an Econo Lodge, a Howard Johnson, a Ramada. They had the look of places people came to hang themselves. He picked the Ho-Jo at random, pulled around back. The parking lot was only a third full.
His breath was fog. A plane took off half a mile away, the roar loud, red and green wing lights passing overhead as Daniel squatted behind a minivan with a bumper sticker announcing the owner’s kid was an honor student at Hermon High. He fanned out the keys on his ring, chose the slenderest one, and fit it into the first screw.
The cold stiffened his fingers and made him curse, and by the time he was done, he wasn’t sure the key would be much use as a key. But it did okay to attach the Maine plates to his BMW.
He had a pang of guilt, but pushed it down.
You might need to do worse than steal some license plates. Better get used to that idea.