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.
They’re coming for you. He struggled against the sheets, adrenaline pounding through his body. “Who is it?”
“Manager.”
“What do you want?”
“Money for today. Or you gotta clear out.”
“Yeah, ah.” Daniel forced an exhale. It was just a dream. His waking mind had heard the banging, integrated it, that was all. Guardian angels weren’t on shows called Candy Girls. “One second.”
He pulled on his jeans and stained undershirt, then opened the door. The manager looked him up and down, took in the funky hair and the pillow marks. “You okay?”
“I just woke up.”
“After one.” The tone part contempt, part befuddlement.
“Yeah.” Daniel rubbed at his eyes. “Is it?” He glanced around the room, saw the deposit envelope. “Forty, right?”
The man reached for the twenties, and Daniel noticed splotches of color under his nails, ocher and chartreuse and evergreen. “Hey, you’re the husband. The painter.”
“Ayup,” he said in the same tone of voice he might have used to admit to stealing from a church donation basket.
“I really like your work. That canvas in the office, and this one.” He gestured at the lonely promontory, the salt spray, the shattered heavens. “They’re terrific.”
The manager’s ears flushed red. He nodded, said nothing.
One thing you had to give Maine people, Daniel thought, no one could accuse them of babbling. “You ever have a show?”
“On television?”
“No, I mean an art show. In a gallery.”
“I.” He didn’t seem to know what to say. “No.”
“You should. You could probably sell these. They’re so vivid, you know? Evocative. They’re lonely and sad, but in a distinctive way.” He realized he was rambling, but it felt good to talk to someone, anyone. “I bet you’d be surprised.”
The guy looked away, muttered something that might have been a thanks. Then he said, “Checkout is noon,” and walked quickly away.
Daniel watched him go, this lumbering, quiet man. Living in the sticks, painting cries of desolation he never intended to sell. So shy that a word of praise made him squirm. In bed he and his wife must be about as much fun as a tax audit.
But at least he knows who he is.
In the bathroom Daniel splashed water on his face, dunked his head under the faucet. “So,” he said to his reflection, “we’re a couple of good-looking dudes. What’s our plan?”
The mirror offered no suggestions.
Well, okay then. Two options came to mind. He could go to the police and ask for help. Or he could get back in his car and drive to Los Angeles. The police were probably the safest route. But was it that simple?
Daniel grabbed his keys, went to the parking lot. The gun was where he’d left it. He stared for a moment. Glanced around. No one seemed to be watching, but still.
There was a crumpled Wendy’s bag on the floor, and he shook it out, dumping a hamburger wrapper and a napkin. Hesitantly, he took the pistol, slid it into the bag, then locked the car and returned to his room.
He turned on the lamp on the bedside table to get a look at the gun. A Glock 17 with the trademark triple-action trigger safety system, no hammer, drop-safe. Tenifer-hardened for maximum scratch and corrosion resistance. He thumbed the magazine release, saw that it was fully loaded with 9mm rounds.