The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes Read Online Free PDF

hair flies behind her.
EXT. CANDY GIRLS HOUSE—CONTINUOUS
EMILY SWEET stands at the end of the porch, facing away.
MADDY (O.S.)
Em?
    Emily stiffens, but doesn’t turn. Maddy climbs, pauses, then walks behind her sister and puts a hand on her arm.
MADDY (CONT’D)
Talk to me.
EMILY
What do you want me to say? MADDY
You could call Tara something that rhymes with “runt.”
Emily snorts a laugh. She faces her sister. EMILY
    You heard, huh?
MADDY
Everybody heard, honey.
(catches herself)
That’s not what—I just mean that it— EMILY
It’s okay.
(it’s clearly not)
MADDY
Tara’s never been concerned about her karma.
EMILY
Not her. Jake. Why would he tank my audition?
MADDY
It wasn’t Jake. The director, he and Tara . . .
Emily stares, understanding dawning. EMILY
Wow. And I thought a house had landed on the Wicked West of the West.
(a beat)
Wait, how do you—
    MADDY
Jake called. He’s upset.
EMILY
So upset that he called you.
MADDY
Life is scary to some people.
EMILY
Then maybe they get what they deserve. (shakes her head)
Life is scary to me too. Doesn’t mean I hide from it.
    MADDY He loves you.
EMILY
So why does he need you to tell me? Emily stalks off the porch.
MADDY
Wait—
Emily doesn’t. 5
    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.
5
    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