Sleep never arrives.
I receive an email from the Coast News just after sunrise. They want me to confirm my attendance at today’s interview. They don’t say it in their email, but the news about Emily and Veronica is the real reason they want to wrap up this investigation sooner rather than later.
“You gonna go?” Fuji asks.
“Not going will cause me more problems.”
“Coffee?”
“Fresh pot?”
“Yes, in the kitchen. I’ll be right back.”
I stayed at Fuji’s the entire night, and neither of us slept much. Fuji asked question after question. For once, I answered truthfully. Fuji would only tap the top of my hand with her own. “Poor boy,” she repeated. Now and again, she’d fall asleep. I would try to do the same. My body was exhausted, but my consciousness was unwilling to give in. Still, the act of telling the truth—as much of it as I can remember at this point—feels like a hot shower after a day of splashing in mud. Truth, as it turns out, is the power wash for the soul.
“You’ll need this.” Fuji lifts a coffee mug out of the basket fixed to her walker. Hands it to me.
“Good, no?”
“This is fresh?”
“Not fresh-fresh.”
“Tastes not fresh-fresh.”
She turns on the television and finds Jeopardy!
“Is this the same episode you were watching last night?”
“It’s an important episode.”
“How old is it?”
“It’s from seven years ago.”
“Do you only watch this one episode?”
“You’ve got your shit and I’ve got mine,” she says.
I take Glitch down the hall and past the two rooms that Fuji has crammed with an endless array of furniture and electronics and boxes and boxes and boxes of stuff out of sight and out of mind. We head out to the backyard, and Glitch sniffs around before doing his business. I start to think about the last twenty-four hours. Hope like hell that the serial killer that I’ve pissed off didn’t track my movements back to Fuji. Rewind my drive back here in my head. I don’t remember seeing any cars behind me. No silhouettes in parked vehicles near her house as I approached it. Please, God, let this be the case. Glitch and I go back inside.
“I think I better get going.”
“Now?”
“My shift at the data center starts in about an hour.”
“Are you sure you want to go back there?” Fuji asks.
“It’ll give me something else to focus on besides Emily and Veronica.”
Fuji asks if the weekend’s news will raise suspicion. She’s walking the line between caring-maternal and extreme-judgmental. I tell her how nobody at the data center pays attention to anyone else. How it’s designed to keep us from socializing.
“Just remember, there’s no problem so bad that it can’t be made worse.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Oh—doesn’t matter, I suppose.” She fidgets with her breathing tube. Holds the mask in place at her mouth. Crooks her head and her eyes moisten with kindness. “There’s good in you. You’ve just forgotten.”
Goosebumps ripple across the backs of my arms. What is that feeling? Warmth swirls in my chest.
Fuji asks if Glitch can stay and keep her company. I give her feeding instructions and grab my wallet off a salon chair. Make sure I have my badge. “Be back this evening.” I start to close the door behind me but pause. “Fuji?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
* * *
The Golden Home Medical truck struggles against the uneven pavement found on on-ramps and freeway exits. I didn’t have time to switch it out for my car, which is an issue because the underground parking at the data center cannot accommodate the truck’s size. I pull into the vacant lot in front of the building, the outer walls made of granite and paranoia. As I take the stairs to enter the building, another man, slightly heavyset, lumbers one floor up. He turns, and I catch the profile of his face. In an instant, I recognize him.
He’s the man in white briefs. No longer caged. No longer feeble. My reality is becoming increasingly cramped with what-the-fuck moments.
“Hey!”
He looks down the center of the stairwell. Stops and waits for me.
“What are you doing here?”
“Do I know you?”
Yes, but not really. “No, but—” I hesitate. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to reference his past life or that I know he’s taken the full dose of Lobotomy Pills. “Your name is Phillip, right?”
He looks down at his badge. “You must be confusing me with someone else,” he says in an irritated tone. “My name is Walter. And you are?”
Right. The badge. “Chris. I work on floor two. You?”
“Floor three.”
We stand there, each assessing the other’s endgame. Finally, I lay my cards down. “Can I just ask why are you’re here? Shouldn’t you be starting over in some other state or country?”
He looks around and makes sure nobody else is within earshot. “Look,” he says tersely, “we’re not supposed to talk about any of that. But since you’re too dense to piece this together—I’m guessing this is your last mission for Rocket, right?”
I nod.
“Well, I have my missions too. I haven’t earned the restart yet. Guessing it’s the same for everyone else here.” His face relaxes out of its near combat demeanor. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. But we’re all just trying to work our way through those pills, am I right?”
“I suppose so.”
“I wish you luck. But a word of advice, don’t talk to anyone else. I doubt the suits would like it. Nor would Rocket. Do your job and get out.”
I’m at my workstation and still confused as fuck. I should probably call Enzo and see what he thinks. Instead, I play mental Jenga on whether I should or shouldn’t reveal my disorientation to the only person I trust within the Subterraneans. I’ll hold off for now. But maybe this is a sign of something else—my memory is slowly dissolving.
I take out the Post-it stack. Write down the oldest memory I can find in my head. Job interview at the Coast News. Age: twenty-three. That’s when I first met Terry. Not a great memory. Terry simultaneously mocked me for including my college GPA on my résumé while also grilling me about why it wasn’t a perfect 4.0. “Are you one of those people that love half measures for everything in life?” I can’t remember anything earlier than that. I scan the previous Post-it notes I’ve left myself, the age ticking backward, and none of what I’ve written jogs a memory.
But I know I remember Phillip in that cage with his drool and shit-streaked briefs. But, most importantly, I remember what Rocket told me about him. That he earned a new life, the beginning of which was imminent.
But Phillip or Walter can only occupy so much of my quickly diminishing energy. I work through the daily recordings and quotas. Stay in my seat through the four-hour shift. Never give my computer-strained eyes a moment to recover. Phillip was right about one thing. Do your job and get out.
My shift ends, and I’m back in the truck. But the day’s challenges have only begun. I head back to the peninsula.
To the Coast News.
* * *
I park around the corner since I would rather avoid anyone at the Coast News asking about Golden Home Medical and this commercial delivery truck. I find Cal waiting in front of the building. He stands, leaning up against a white sedan—probably a rental.
“I thought I might see you today,” Cal says. He smiles but in a way that shows he’s afraid on my behalf.
“Are you leaving for lunch or stalking me?”
“I could lie and say this was a happy coincidence.”
We talk about the investigation. He tells me they interviewed him last week.
“I only told them what I know about you. That ‘Dash is an honest reporter just trying to crack a huge story.’”
“They buy it?”
“Hard to say.”
“Is the investigator a hard-ass?”
“He’s a hired mercenary, isn’t he?”
We shoot the shit a bit. Cal tells me what he’s been working on—a few one-off stories that neither satisfy him as a reporter or get him closer to a promotion or role as an editor. Eventually, he gets to the real reason for his concern. Why he waited for me.
Cal knew Emily and Veronica from stopping by my place enough.
“Scary shit. Have you talked to the cops?”
“Not yet.”
“You have to ask the cops for help, man.” He sounds exasperated. “Whatever the truth is with the story—it doesn’t freaking matter anymore. What matters is you’re safe, and I’m not so certain you are.”
I do what I can to reassure him. Tell him I’ll follow through with the cops, even if they seem to be more suspicious of me lately. That I’ll prioritize my well-being. The strain in his face eases, and he reverts to the ho-hum friend I know well.
He pats me on the shoulder. “Please know that whatever you did—I don’t care. But you don’t have to bear all this by yourself, okay?”
“Thank you,” is all I can think to say. But I know it’s honest.
I find the formerly friendly security guard at the front desk in the lobby. He greets me with a cold exchange. We both know why I’m there, and he escorts me upstairs to the Bob Woodward Room. The door is open, and inside, the investigator I spoke to on the phone, Lee Berenger, awaits. He looks like I expected him to look. Like a vanilla yogurt dude from the Northeast still carrying a chip on his shoulder because he never made the dean’s honor list at Dartmouth.
After exchanging introductory greetings, he transitions to the business at hand. “Why don’t we get to it?” He opens his laptop. “Still good with this?”
“Sure. Why not.”
“Nice strong, confident attitude. Signals you have nothing to hide.” Lee squints at the computer screen I can’t see. “Go ahead and have a seat right there,” he says, motioning to the nearest chair. “We’re just going to walk through some questions about your story.”
“No worries,” I say in a tone that instead communicates, Fuck you, Lee.
“Let’s start with the procedural questions.” He folds the cuffs on his white shirt back and pushes the sleeves up his forearms. Fusses with the mouse and stares at the monitor. “Please state your first and last name.”
“Dash Hassan.”
“Date of birth?”
“It’s December,” I say, trailing off because the date eludes me. Holy shit. Have I forgotten my birthday? Is that possible? No, it can’t be possible. I start trying to locate a memory of an office birthday party. A night celebrating out at bars. Try to triangulate the date from that memory.
“It’s December what?”
“Hang on,” I say, reaching for my wallet. “I’ll check my license.”
“Is this a joke? You need your driver’s license to answer this?”
I can’t help but laugh, and this does not please Lee.
“If you’re not going to take this seriously, then I might as well wrap this up.”
“No, sorry. Hang on a second.” I find my license and start to read off the date when a soft knock on the door interrupts us.
“Sorry for barging in,” the security guard says, sticking his head through the narrow opening in the doorframe. “But there are two officers here, and they want to speak with Dash.”
“I only need fifteen minutes,” Lee whines.
“They say they only need five.”
“Fine.” Lee slams his laptop shut. “They can talk to him. He needs an attitude check anyway. I’ll be down the hall.”
The guard turns to me. “You okay to speak with them?”
Not really. “Sure.”
A few moments later, Officers Affleck and Damon stride through the door. Affleck holds on to his Batman utility belt while Damon clutches a slim folder.
“Well, well, look who we found,” Damon says.
“We were beginning to think we’d never see you again,” Affleck mocks.
“How can I help you?” I cross my legs and feign disinterest.
Affleck walks over to the side of the desk where Lee’s computer rests. Plays with the chair on wheels. Damon holds his place near the door. I have one-half of Good Will Hunting to my left and the other to my right. “We’re glad we caught you while you were here. We stopped by your apartment yesterday, but you never answered the door.”
“Was very sick this weekend.”
“What kind of sick?” Affleck asks.
“Flu, I think.”
“Yeah, they say that’s going around,” Damon says. “You should really get a flu shot, you know?” He makes some more small talk before transitioning to Emily and Veronica. “I’m sure you saw the news.” I nod. He puffs his chest out. “Obviously, we have to talk to you about it.” He asks me three questions: “Did you know the twins well?” “Did they participate in your story in any manner?” “Did you have any contact with them within the last week?”
I give my three answers.
One: “I knew them as neighbors, nothing more.”
Two: “Not at all.”
Three: “I had a short conversation with them Friday afternoon or early evening.”
Damon starts back up. “Would you say it was a conversation or an argument? Another neighbor of yours reported that it looked like a disagreement of some kind.”
“They were mad about my dog shitting on the grass. That’s all.”
“That same neighbor also said you drove off in a hurry after talking with them. Where were you going?”
“Am I being investigated?” I ask, knowing the obvious truth.
“We’re just talking,” Affleck says.
Damon places the folder in front of me on the desk. He doesn’t slam it down or slide it across dramatically like they do in cop shows. “Take a look,” he says.
I open the folder. Stare at its contents. Glossy and freshly developed photos of Enzo and me outside the warehouse. Clear as day. Taken from an angle that a paparazzi would choose. Anxiety scorches my blood from red to white. My armpits crank out heat and musk.
“We received these the same day we recovered the twins’ bodies. We got it through the mail without a return address.”
“You have some photos of me, and you have a murder case. Not sure I see the connection.”
“Not saying there is one. But can you tell us about the photos? Who is that with you?” Damon asks.
I run through the moves available to me and find the obvious one. I get out of the chair. Face the door. “Look, if you intend to arrest me, do it.” I hold my hands out so they can cuff me. “If not, I’ll be going now.” I start for the door, waiting to see if my bluff is a winner. Damon doesn’t stop me. Instead, he stares at Affleck, defeat drenching his face. “The next time we talk, I’ll have a lawyer on hand.”
877-Rick-Sues?
I speed walk out of the Coast News. Back around the corner and to the truck. For the millionth time in the last few weeks, I’m hyperventilating. I breathe into an empty paper bag from a fast-food stop days ago. I start asking myself all the questions someone who is about to be found out starts asking.
Do they know what I’ve been doing?
Can they determine the warehouse’s location from the photo?
Have they already shaken down Rocket?
I head to the pier to warn Caris and Rocket. To beg them to let me finish what we started and get me to a new town where I’ll complete this mission under a new alias, with a new identity, at a different data facility. Maybe Rocket was genuine when he said I’m a special little bird. Maybe he’ll take pity.
I drive around the streets near the pier several times. Up the hill and back down. Through the residential areas. Make sure nobody is tailing me. I park the truck behind a liquor store and walk to the warehouse, palms sweaty and quivering in my hoodie’s front pocket. The fish market is in full operation. Bass and salmon and cod displayed over ice, glassy eyeballs winning the staring contest with the ceiling. Only a few patrons are inside. Probably local restaurateurs shopping for tonight’s special. I look for Caris. I would prefer him over Rocket to deliver the news, but I see neither. The owner of the market is at the front register. He’s a Subterranean, but he’s not wearing his trench coat at the moment. Instead, it’s his civilian camouflage—a dress shirt and slacks, blending in with society. He recognizes me and looks away. I take that as permission to head downstairs. I march down the steps and into the basement. Put my hands on my hips and pace. Rack my brain for what to do next. The shoppers’ footsteps thud above me. Dust falls from the basement’s ceiling, glimmering particles cascade down like tiny snowflakes in a quiet storm. The weapons are still mounted to the wall. The crates with hay sticking out nearby. The cage is still here too, now empty. To the right of the cage is the lone filing cabinet in the room, four drawers in all.
I don’t know why I do it, but I do.
I walk over. Pull the first drawer out. It’s full of files—each one adorned with a slip listing a first name, organized alphabetically. These are our files. The Subterraneans. All of Rocket’s little birds are documented and stored. But the first two files in the drawer are unmarked. Nothing alphabetical to indicate their placement at the front. I pull them out and look them over. It’s the files Rocket gave me the night of my testimony. The man in North Dakota. The woman in Munich. I wonder why they aren’t in their natural listings. Why they don’t have their names inked at the top. I flip to the D’s, searching for my file, wondering what they are really archiving. But it’s not here. No file with “Dash Hassan.” Maybe this isn’t all of them? The cage, ominous and creepy, reminds me of someone else.
Phillip.
I open the third drawer down, and rummage past the N’s and a few O’s. Eventually, I find him. Phillip Anasio. A photo of him is pinned to the left corner like a crime file. Beneath the photo is a form divided into sections marked with bolded letters: CYCLES.
People use the phrase “to my horror” when expressing disbelief over life-changing realizations. The kind they only think exists in nightmares. In the bleakest corners of their subconscious. But safety is often a mirage and nightmares are real even for the lucid. And to my horror, as I realize what each cycle represents, I now know the truth.
It’s not about a fresh start. Nor a new life.
It’s not about getting past the worst thing we’ve ever done and starting over in a new town as a fresh version of ourselves.
Instead, it turns out this is about control, just as Rocket once explained. But it isn’t about the control we earn as we burn out our memories. It’s about how they control us. Manipulate each person into what they need. Exploit the vacant minds we willingly empty.
I read Phillip’s file over again. He’s had previous missions and full doses of the Lobotomy Pills in two other towns. Three cycles now in total. The first two cycles were a full walk from a recruit to breaking into homes to roles at different data centers. This last time around, they restarted him and sent him straight to the data center in Gilroy. The only explanation why is found in the form of a handwritten note reading, Need more staff. Each cycle concludes when he takes the fourth Lobotomy Pill. But when they erase him they also start him over at the exact point and exact location they most need him. While in a temporary state of coma—the caged “rebuilding phase”—they narrate a past that blends truth and fiction back to him. Stuff his mind with even more regret. They use small doses of the Emergency Pill to build him up. They do this multiple times. Rinse and repeat. He’s never free. Instead, they fill his head just enough to keep him in their never-ending loop of free labor.
We’re the perfect henchmen. The ultimate workforce.
I look back over the first two files. The man in North Dakota. The woman in Munich. Their files say nothing about cycles. Nothing about small doses of the Emergency Pill. And then it hits me. These are just dummy files. Fool’s gold for a fool like me.
Does Enzo know?
I’m disgusted. Disgusted by the scent of fish. Disgusted with the cops and their suspicions. With the killer and my connection with this fucked-up cult. Disgusted with myself. I wonder how much time I have until everything boils over. Until it’s too late to fix my mess.
I open the second drawer and scavenge the files until I find Enzo’s. Pull it out. But before I can read it, I hear it over my shoulder. The fake baritone designed to compensate for his short and otherwise unintimidating stature.
It’s Caris.
“What are you doing?”
One way in. One way out. And if I wait any longer, there will be more than Caris standing in my way. I hold tight to Enzo’s file. Start to walk slowly at Caris. I divide the distance between us into thirds, and as the first third is nearly reached, I start to pick up my pace, feeling him out and what he might try to do. He tells me to stop, but I can’t obey. Not anymore. The last third is here and I’m in full sprint, ready for him to step in front of me, which of course he does, but I’ve prepared for this.
Control is about advantage.
And at this moment, size is the only one I hold.
The Next Chapter Begins in 3, 2, 1 . . .