The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes Read online

  Home sweet home.

  Daniel dropped the envelope on the dresser, went to the bathroom. He hesitated outside the door, his hand on the light switch.

  Probably the moment he did it, everything would come clear. The shock would part like fog. He’d remember everything. Have a laugh, then fall asleep with a light heart.

  So why are you hesitating?

  It wasn’t hard to figure out. What happened if you looked in the mirror and didn’t recognize yourself?

  Do it.

  Daniel flipped the switch. Fluorescent light flickered on, revealing linoleum floors and Formica counters.

  No fog parted. No veil lifted. The man in the mirror offered no answers.

  He looked exhausted, bruised and worn and dark-circled, but more or less familiar. For a vertiginous moment, Daniel lost track of which was him and which was the reflection, like one was a doppelganger that could break free and act independently, as he seemed to have snapped free from his life.

  “I don’t feel crazy,” he said, and the man in the mirror agreed. “I just don’t . . . I don’t—”

  A sour taste rose in his throat. He slapped at the light. Stepped out of the bathroom, pulling the dirty undershirt over his head as he went.

  Sleep. He would sleep for a long time, and when he woke up, he would remember. He would. He had to.

  Dear god.

  Please.

  5

  His dreams were sweaty things full of looming shapes and pointing fingers and the sense of imminent disaster. The context changed from dream to dream—he leaned over the edge of a tall building, he fumbled with the seat belt of a car spinning out of control, he stepped into shadows beneath a bridge where something terrible waited—but the essence was the same. In each of them he was filthy and lost and helpless to prevent tragedy.

  The blast of an air horn and the roar of tires woke him, an eighteen-wheeler barreling by. He jerked upright, sure that he had fallen asleep at the wheel again. The sheets were tangled and wet, and the pillow bore a sodden outline of his head.

  “Fuck me.”

  The alarm clock read 4:17 P.M. He’d slept about five hours. Daniel pushed the curtain aside and looked out at the dreary motel sign and the gas station across the street and the flaming sky beyond. Four o’clock and the sun was setting. These people got screwed.

  Weird. You know you don’t belong here, and it’s not a matter of license plates and insurance cards. You just know it’s not home.

  Daniel extricated himself from the blankets and padded to the bathroom. Left the light off as he ran cold water and splashed double handfuls on his face and neck.

  It was time to acknowledge the facts. Somehow he had forgotten who he was.

  So what do you know?

  He’d woken on a beach, half-dead, naked. Could he have been drugged or knocked unconscious, taken there against his will? But if someone had done that, why leave the car for him to find?

  More likely, he had gone there himself. Judging by the contents of the car, the whiskey and the ephedrine and the profusion of crap, he’d been driving for a while, maybe all the way from California. From sunny Malibu to that dark ocean, that hidden bluff, where he . . .

  He . . .

  Jesus.

  He tried to kill himself.

  How else to explain it? No wallet in the car, no clothes on the beach, no cell phone. He must have gone into the ocean. He could picture it, the cold light of dawn barely breaking the horizon. Habit might have made him kick off his shoes, take off his watch, then realize how unnecessary the actions were. Walking into the water, wincing at the shock, the bone-snapping cold of the waves. Walking until he could dive, and then swimming, stripping off his remaining clothing as he went. Past the breakers. His mind in turmoil, desperate to die, fighting to live. Diving deep into the womb-darkness, and opening his mouth to invite it inside—

  Flair for the dramatic, Daniel?

  He didn’t know anything like that, not really. Maybe he’d just wanted to take a dip. Hell, maybe he wasn’t Daniel Hayes. He couldn’t know any of it for sure.

  First things first. A shower. And food. He was starving. If he wanted to be more than an animal, if he wanted to believe that he was still a man even if he wasn’t a whole one, then may as well start with the simple stuff.

  In the bathroom he spun the tap to hot, stripped off the boxer briefs and tossed them on the toilet tank, then, while the water warmed, looked at his body in the mirror. His skin was on the pasty end of the spectrum, and though his arms had some definition, his belly had that early-thirties softness. Scratches crisscrossed his shoulders and back. I’ve got a feeling I’ve looked better. He stepped into the shower and let it wash over him.

  Afterward, a towel around his waist, he explored his room. There was another canvas on the wall, this one a gray outcropping of rock lashed by black-blue waves. Spray flew high, spatters of white against storm clouds. The scene was intensely lonely, all that fury and foam without a hint of humanity to soften it. The only bright spot was in the sky, a tear in the clouds, small and far away.

  Yeah, well, if you were married to that woman, hope would look small and far away to you too.

  Daniel picked up the remote control from the nightstand, turned on the TV. Five-forty-eight, not time yet. He flipped until he found CNN, Wolf Blitzer myopically paternal. The Palestinians and the Israelis were still going at it, Darfur was still hell, Russia was still backsliding. Daniel hit mute.

  His stomach twisted. God, he was ravenous. Have to do something about that soon. First, though, let’s see if you can get some help.

  The telephone was black and battered. He lifted the receiver, punched 411, and was rewarded by a mechanical tone followed by a mechanical voice. “Welcome to Directory Assistance. For English, please press one. Para Español—”

  He hit one.

  “Please say the city and state.”

  “Los Angeles, California.”

  “Say the name of the person or business you are—” “Daniel Hayes.”

  “One moment please.”

  He waited, twisting the cord between his fingers. After a moment, the silence gave way to the muted buzz of a call center and an operator’s bored voice. “Thank you for calling AT&T Directory Assistance calls may be recorded for quality assurance please spell the name you’re looking for.”

  “Hayes, H-A-Y-E-S, first name Daniel.”

  “Thank you.” The clacking of keys. “I’m sorry sir, that number is unlisted.”

  “Listen, it’s an emergency. I absolutely have to talk to, to Daniel.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I can’t give out unlisted phone numbers.”

  “Could you connect me directly?”

  “I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that.”

  “Come on,” he said, trying to keep the frustration from his voice, “what’s the worst that could happen if you connect me? I still won’t know the number.”

  “I’m sorry sir, I—”

  “Can’t do fuck all. Yeah.” He hung up the phone hard enough to jar the bell. Five fifty-eight, almost time. He punched channels until he came to FX, the wrap-up of some cop show. Calling had been a long shot, but he’d been hoping that someone might answer the phone, someone who would recognize his voice. A roommate, a lover, a brother, a wife, someone he could trust to guide him—

  Wait a second.

  Almost time? For what?

  His shoulders tingled like they’d been brushed with feathers. When he checked into the motel, he’d confirmed the room had cable. And earlier, shit, he hadn’t even noticed, but as he’d turned on the TV he’d thought that it wasn’t time yet.

  Daniel sat up straight against the cheap headboard. Unmuted the television. Commercials: bad credit, no credit, you could get a loan; a Swiffer made it all worthwhile for a grinning housewife; a Mustang drove at unlikely speeds across abandoned roads.

  And then it started.

  INT. MAMI’S KITCHEN—DAY

  A stylish West Hollywood c
afé at lunchtime. BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE munch organic greens and sip Chablis, attended by WAITRESSES in chic black outfits. At a table by the window EMILY SWEET toys with her silverware. She’s a knockout in a tight T-shirt and designer jeans.

  An appetizer is half-eaten in front of her. She glances at her watch and sighs, then reaches for her purse.

  EMILY

  I’ll grab the check when you have a second.

  WAITRESS

  Let me guess. He didn’t show? EMILY

  (a tight smile)

  L.A. men.

  WAITRESS

  Don’t I know. Too much hair gel, not enough heart.

  A handsome man with a jaw that would make Superman jealous pushes through the crowd. JAKE MODINE looks relieved to see Emily still there. The waitress gives Emily a surreptitious thumbs-up.

  JAKE Em, honey, I’m so sorry— EMILY It’s fine.

  (standing)

  Try the ceviche.

  JAKE Wait—

  EMILY

  I’m tired of waiting for you, Jake. JAKE

  The reason I was late—

  EMILY

  All this time I’ve been believing your lies, hoping that someday you’d find the guts to take what you want. And what did that get me?

  (she shoulders her purse)

  Warm ceviche.

  JAKE

  I was late because I was talking with Tara. Yelling, actually.

  (a hand on her shoulder)

  It’s over, Em.

  (a beat)

  I’m leaving your sister. Emily stares. She can’t decide whether to storm away or jump into his arms.

  A sexy pop song kicked in, synced to a quick-cut montage: a couple in bed, then a close-up of the man’s fingers tracing the woman’s back. Night traffic on a highway, headlights blurred and grainy. The flashing thighs of a girl in a nightclub. People around a bonfire, the lights of the Santa Monica Pier behind. A sun-blurred mural of Jim Morrison on the side of a building. Manicured nails holding the stem of a martini glass. Finally, three women—blonde, brunette, and redhead—laughing so hard that the redhead collapsed on the sidewalk. As the song wound up, the title Candy Girls glittered across the screen.

  Daniel stared. It wasn’t the show, which revealed itself to be a sort of lurid cross between Felicity and Melrose Place, a melodrama about three sisters seeking their fortune in Hollywood, the kind of program that purported to be about learning and loving but was really about fighting and fucking. The writing was solid and the production slick, but that wasn’t what caught him. Nor was it the fantasy of eternal youth on the left coast or the stylish editing or catchy soundtrack.

  It was Emily.

  The middle sister, brunette with a cream complexion and bright eyes, the kind of girl who appeared in ads for skin cream, the kind you could imagine what she smelled like just from watching her smile.

  The episode followed her tempestuous relationship with Jake, a producer who had been dating Emily’s older sister while pining for Emily. Tara, the blond one, was predictably unhappy about being dumped, and by the end of the episode she had managed not only to split Emily and Jake up, but also to steal a role from Emily by seducing the director. The part was a guest appearance on a show Jake produced, leaving Emily sure that he’d been toying with her all along.

  In the last minutes, she walked away from Jake. When she reached the safety of her powder-blue VW bug, Emily closed the door and gripped the steering wheel. There were no wild histrionics, just a nicely underplayed swipe at her eyes with the back of her hand, and then she started the car and pulled away, her taillights blending with those of a hundred other aspiring starlets. The credits sprinted past as an announcer teased the upcoming program, something about plastic surgeons. Daniel turned off the TV.

  What the hell was that? What did it mean?

  Who was Emily Sweet?

  She’s a make-believe character, idiot. What it means is that you’re petrified, and right now you’ll cling to anything that distracts you from the facts of your life.

  Daniel stood, went to the bathroom. Hung the towel on the rack and stepped into his clothing. He needed to eat anyway. No harm making another stop.

  5

  He found the drugstore a bit down US-1. The fluorescent lighting was harsh after the deep dark of a Maine evening, but the middleaged woman behind the counter smiled as she sold him the magazine.

  “Anywhere to grab a bite around here?”

  “Kingfisher’s does a decent burger.”

  “Perfect.” He got directions and hopped back in the car. Kingfisher’s turned out to be a diner in a converted house five miles away. Conversation didn’t quite stop when he walked in, but he could feel the eyes on him. He spotted an empty booth by the window, slid onto the Naugahyde, pulled a menu from behind the ketchup. Glenn Frey sang from cheap speakers, advising Daniel to take it easy, not to let the sound of his own wheels drive him crazy.

  “What’ll you have?”

  “Let me get a giant Coke and two double burgers, please.” “How do you want ’em?”

  “Ummm . . .” Good question. “One rare, one well done.” “Shine a flashlight on one, scorch the other. Got it.” She jotted

  on the tab. “Anything else?”

  “Just a question. Where am I, exactly?”

  She gave him a bemused expression. “Outside Cherryfield.” The atlas was taped and torn and out of date, but he didn’t imagine Maine had changed that much. It took him a couple of minutes to find Cherryfield; it was written in the tiniest font on the map. He wasn’t just in Maine, he was practically in Canada. No wonder the beach had been abandoned.

  The waitress plunked down a plastic tumbler of soda. The syrupy sweetness tasted wonderful. Daniel pulled out his drugstore purchase, the current issue of TV Guide. There it was. Candy Girls, FX Networks, running at 6 P.M. eastern. He turned to the next day—same thing. Syndicated, then. A quick scan showed him that it ran five days a week. He flipped back to today—November 4, apparently—and read the description. “Emily (Laney Thayer) and Jake (Robert Cameron) get closer, but Tara (Janine Wilson) has other plans.”

  “Here you go, hon.” The waitress set down the dinner plates. The smell hit, rich and fatty, and his stomach didn’t so much growl as roar. He bit into a burger. Amazing. His first meal. Daniel attacked it, throwing it down like he was filling a hole.

  “Why do you have two hamburgers?”

  A girl of maybe eight stood at the end of the table. Her hair was swept into a ponytail and secured by a pink fuzzy thing, and she wore a T-shirt with a picture of a girl only a little older than her singing into a microphone.

  He smiled at her. “What do you mean? I only have one.” “No, you have two.” She pointed to them. “One, t—” Before she could finish, he crammed the rest of the burger in

  his mouth, his cheeks ballooning out. “Thee?” he asked through a mouthful of meat. “Un.”

  She laughed and clapped her hands to her mouth. Daniel chewed, swallowed, chewed, swallowed. He coughed and wiped his mouth.

  “You’re silly,” the girl said.

  “Thank you.” He gestured at her. “I like your shirt. Who’s that?”

  “That’s Hannah Montana! She’s a singer except when she’s a girl. She’s really famous, and everybody loves her, but nobody knows that she’s also Miley Stewart. But here she’s Hannah Montana. I’m going to be a famous singer someday and do concerts and sing for the president and stuff.”

  “Wow. I’m lucky I met you now.”

  The girl nodded sagely. “That’s true. I’ll be really busy when I’m famous. And I’ll live in a big house with a pool and the ocean. And lots of famous people will come visit, and they’ll all like me, because I’ll be famous too.”

  “Sounds pretty great,” Daniel said. He reached for his soda, took a swig.

  “Nadine!” The woman appeared out of nowhere. She ignored Daniel as she snatched the little girl’s wrist. “What did I tell you? Get back over there.”

  �
��We were just talking,” Daniel said. “It’s okay.”

  The woman gave him a mind-your-own-business glare, then tugged the little girl toward a booth at the other end of the restaurant. “I told you to sit still. Now you sit still, young lady.”

  Daniel shook his head. Why even have kids if what you wanted was a doll that sat still? It had been good to talk—well, listen—to Nadine. It had felt normal. No questions about who he was or what anything meant. Kids that young were so sure of everything. She was going to be a famous singer, and that was that.

  He picked up his other burger. He could feel eyes on him, and made a point of eating slowly and neatly. By the time he’d reduced his dinner to crumbs and grease, conversation had returned to normal. When he leaned back, his belly strained the snap of the jeans, and a pleasant sort of exhaustion had come over him. For the first time, he felt almost okay. He had started the day fighting for his life, and since then he had found clothing, shelter, food. He knew where he was, and had a name that might well be his.

  That’s the criteria for okay? Maybe knowing your name?

  He had to grip the edge of the table, afraid he might fall out of the booth.

  5

  He was in a concrete canyon. Water trickled. The bleeding sun stained everything crimson. Ahead there was a tunnel, tall and broad. The mouth of it was perfect black shadow, but he knew that something waited in that darkness. Waited and watched.

  Something terrible.

  “Hurry.”

  The voice came from behind. He spun.

  Emily Sweet, pale skin and dark hair spilling in a tangle. Wearing the same outfit as on the show, a T-shirt that hugged her body and flaring jeans. She sat on the concrete, long legs crossed girlishly beneath her. Her feet were bare, the nails painted the color of the dying sun.

  She smiled up at him. “Hurry.”

  “What?”

  “You have to hurry.”

  “Why?”

  “They’re coming for you,” she said.

  “Who—” But before he could finish, there was a loud bang and

  suddenly he was looking at her through the wrong end of a telescope, the barren concrete and the haunted tunnel and Emily all zooming into the distance. Daniel jerked awake. The pounding came again. Someone knocking on the door.