The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes (18 page)

The woman just held up a finger for silence. On the TV screen, a square-jawed man in a doctor’s coat stared into the middle distance as the music swelled.

“Hey.” Daniel rapped on the Plexi. “Aunt Bee.”
She looked over. “Ex
cuse
me?”
He pressed a wad of twenties against the glass. “I need a room.” The walls might once have been white, but were now a palimpsest of stains he didn’t care to look closely at. His neighbor had an affinity for game shows and a gargling cough like drowning. A radiator hissing in one corner heated the room to sweltering. Daniel opened the single window, then plugged in the laptop. He entered the password, and once again programs teased their familiarity, folders beckoned with secrets, and a nun flipped him off.

He took a deep breath, put his fingers on the keyboard. Suddenly nervous. There would be so many answers, so many details. The record of his life in minutiae. But it was minutiae that made things real. What if he didn’t like what he found? What if it turned out that he was a violent man, that Laney was frightened of him, that their marriage was a sham, that she was unhappy . . .

Moment of truth, my friend. Time to face the life you built. It’s something most people never have to do. How many, given the chance to be something different, to start fresh and be whatever they wanted, how many would take it? How many marriages survive out of habit, how many lives are lived in quiet desperation?

What if yours was one?
He looked out the window. Purple clouds moved in Mark Rothko gradients. A packed bus rumbled by, not one white face on it. In the distance, police sirens.
On the other hand, that does beat a life of noisy terror.
Daniel smiled and dove in.

There was so very much of it. Thousands of e-mails in scores of folders, and a thousand more that hadn’t been sorted. Long threads discussing the best way to handle a casting situation on the show. Short exchanges with people he apparently had known well, planning lunches, drinks, parties. Notes to his agents, the producers, the studio execs, his lawyer. Catch-up rambles with people he hadn’t seen in years. And Laney. So many e-mails with Laney, ranging from . . .

From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 07/23/08, 7:54 PM Subject: Pavilions

From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:23 AM
Subject: Saturday . . .

From: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) To: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:25 AM
Subject: RE: Saturday

From: Laney Thayer ([email protected]) To: Daniel Hayes ([email protected]) Sent: 9/10/08, 9:27 AM
Subject: RE: RE: Saturday

Love letters and bill reminders. Jokes and forwarded baby pictures. Links to articles on politics and bitchy rants about colleagues. He read for hours, his eyes sore and dry, words starting to wobble. It was like trying to navigate a forest by turning a random direction every time he came to a clearing. There was simply too much information, and not enough context.

He moved on to the pictures. There were tons of them, he and Laney on vacation, on the set, in the car, in their house. An early morning shot of him with his hair pulled into a wacky tangle. Laney holding someone’s baby, making the little girl wave at the camera. Shots of dinner parties and Christmas trees and friends. But by and large, the photos were of the two of them, individually or together.

Daniel’s mouth stretched in a smile wide enough to hurt, but his body was tense and rigid. He felt like a man gut-shot in the middle of a joke. That was all? How could that be all? He stabbed the button to play it again.

Their kitchen sprang to life, not the morbid drunkard’s cave he’d seen, but the heart of a warm home. Red wine glowed. Laney, his Laney, laughed and sang and danced for him. Her ponytail bobbed from side to side, her feet tapped out that goofy Riverdance, her hips swayed lithe and graceful. A silly, private moment, not the kind of thing epic love poems were written about. But the kind of thing they
should
be written about. Not love as stormy skies and sweeping passion, gathered armies and pounding seas. Real love. Love that had to pick up the dry cleaning, and worked too late, and could swim in a moment’s laughter. Love that could fit into a life.

He set it on loop.
Again and again and again she danced for him. Joyful and unself-conscious and free. Daniel didn’t realize he was crying until he felt the slick trickle of a tear paving a route down his cheek. He didn’t stop himself. Just sat and watched her dance and bawled like a child.
Oh baby, my baby, where did you go? How could you leave me alone here?
He paused the video to check the date stamp. It had been recorded on October 18th. Laney had been murdered on November 3rd.
Just two weeks separated the woman dancing in fluffy socks from the broken body spinning in cold ocean currents.
Nausea twisted his guts like a handful of rope. He staggered to his feet, stumbled to the bathroom, collapsed in front of the toilet, barely making it before everything exploded out, sick and hot. His fingers clutched the dirty porcelain. Shoulders shaking with fever. The pain tore through him like lightning, flashes that left him blind and weak.
It was all gone. The life he had led. The thousand intimacies they’d shared. The victories and struggles and banal moments. Cooking dinner or watching television or sitting with his feet in her lap, it was gone forever.
Nothing was supposed to be this bad.
No wonder
.
No wonder I got in my car and took off. The only amazing thing is that I made it all the way there.
And all he had to look forward to was remembering it all again. Like a slow drip of acid, each memory would leave a wound. Each would be a reminder of what would never be again.
Daniel huddled on the cracked floor of the flophouse bathroom and wept.
He couldn’t say how long he lay there. But eventually, he forced himself to his feet. Flushed the toilet, then spun the cold water tap all the way and jammed his head beneath it, ribbons of icy water splitting his hair, rivulets pouring down his neck, into his ears. The cold was shocking after the dozy heat of the room. The sink’s porcelain was a network of hairline cracks intricate as a spider’s web. There were no towels, and he took off his shirt, used it to dry himself.
Before, he had wondered if it was possible, all the things that they had said about him. His temper and the money issues and the rumors of an affair and the unbearable possibility that he had had something to do with her death.
No matter what else he might learn, he would never again doubt that they had loved each other, that he would have done anything for her. That he would have torn the whirling world to shreds before he laid an angry hand on her.
The past was an origami puzzle, planes and edges touching here, spreading there. There would be answers somewhere about how this had happened, who had done it. But right now, even the thought of those answers was meaningless. By Christ, yes, he would find who did this, and they would pay.
But really, who cared? Not even him. The question wasn’t
Who killed my wife?
It was
How could this happen to us?
And,
God, please,
please,
can you take it back?

aniel had jerked
awake with a sick wet snort like a drowning man frantically kicking for the surface. He’d been in a concrete canyon, but woke in the hotel, dripping sweat, head throbbing. Clean sunlight through the dirty window. Laney still dancing for him from the laptop propped on the pillow, the volume off. He’d fallen asleep staring at the image of her, hoping that there would be a moment haunting the borderlands of consciousness when he might see her and not remember that she was gone. Might, for even a second, be whole again.

For a moment he’d lain still. The hollow in his chest almost enough to crush him. Then he sighed, pulled himself up, staggered to the bathroom.

Now, as he cruised in morning sunlight through the Palisades, the headache had settled to a steady thrum, the loss to an ache like a cracked tooth.

But you had your time-out, your moment to pretend nothing else mattered. To howl to God and beg for a change.
Now you have to make one.
After the worst of his tears had passed last night, he’d paused the video, gone back through his e-mail. Not the ones from Laney this time, but the others, especially the recent ones. Notes from friends asking if he was okay, messages from reporters looking for a quote, dozens of Google Alerts with his name in them.
And seven, count them, seven, e-mails from a woman named Sophie Zeigler.
The messages had varied in length and tone, but basically came down to a plea for him to call, to get in contact, to stop running. A stern reminder that his grief didn’t end the world, and that by vanishing he was incriminating himself in the eyes of both the media and the police. He’d checked her name in his contacts, discovered that she was his lawyer, found an address for an office in Beverly Hills and a house in Pacific Palisades.
Revealing himself to anyone was a risk. But he needed help. And his lawyer had to be about the safest place he could look for it. So he’d cleaned himself up as best he could and remounted the BMW, his faithful steed.
He’d been wondering if her house would be one of the palaces nestled on the cliff face, but it turned out to be in a more accessible residential area, a neighborhood section north of Sunset, block after beautifully maintained block of broad, leafy trees and gingerbread houses. Hers was a funky Frank Lloyd Wright knockoff with elaborate flower beds and a cobblestone driveway. Paving stones placed with Zen precision led to the porch. A lacquered bench that would have been at home in a museum sat beside the door. He rang the bell, and heard faint musical tones. Daniel rocked on his toes, glanced over his shoulder, rang again.
Okay. Be prepared. Detective Waters said that someone broke into her house and held her at gunpoint. That’s going to strain things. Plus, you vanished, not something that’s going to make a lawyer happy. She might be nervous, maybe even a little bit cold.
The door opened until the chain stopped it, revealing three inches of a woman’s face. An attractive woman in her late forties, he’d guess, maybe a little bit older. Her eyes widened when she saw him.
“Ms. Zeigler,” he said, “I know this—”
The door slammed shut.
Okay. Maybe cold was an understatement.
He looked behind him again. Best to get—
There was the rattle of the chain, and then the door jerked open and the woman threw herself at him, arms wide, yanking him into a hug. He stood rooted and rigid as she squeezed, feeling the warmth of her body, the hard good pressure of her arms, the feel of her hair against his cheek, all of it so sudden and surprising and strange. It was the first time anyone had touched him since he’d woken on the beach.
It felt amazing.
“Daniel, oh honey.” She squeezed him harder. “I can’t believe— is it really you?”
“I—”
Sophie released him, stepped back, eyes flashing. “Where the
hell
have you been?”
“I—”
“Are you okay?”
“Well, I—”
“I could kill you, if I wasn’t so happy to see you.” Her smile brought laugh lines and delicate crow’s feet. Then she looked past him, to the street, and a shadow crossed her face. “Are you—do the police—”
“I’m alone.”
“Come inside.”
“Are you sure?”
“No, Daniel. I want to talk to America’s Most Wanted on my porch.”
He laughed, mind still a whirl, body still feeling her hug, the intoxication of human contact. She held the door and he stepped in.
Polished maple floors and colorful art on the walls. Sophie closed the door, chained it, and then started down the hall, saying over her shoulder, “I can’t believe you’re here. Where have you been?”
“That’s . . . complicated. But I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Well, you did. And not just me. The whole world’s been looking for you. The sheriff’s called me twice a day.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.” They stepped into an airy kitchen. A sunny window, a breakfast nook with the
New York Times
spread out, a coffeepot burbling.
“What?” She whirled. “What who said?”
“I—”
“Please don’t tell me. You
haven’t
talked to them.” Her tone sharp. “Tell me you haven’t talked to the police without your attorney.”
“No. I mean, well, yes. I spoke to a detective. But on the phone.”
“Are you
kidding
me?”
“No, look, I had—”
“Why would you do that? Don’t you get how serious this is?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Never, never,
never
talk to the police without a lawyer. Especially on something like this. Why didn’t you call me first?”
“I—”
“When did you talk to them?”
“Yesterday.”
“On the phone?”
“Yes.” Softly, like a scolded child. It felt oddly good.
“Detective Waters?”
“Yes. He said—”
“And where have you been?”
“I—”
“I mean, you just
vanished.
You call me late at night, drunk, and then you disappear? How do you think that looks?” She banged in a cupboard, brought out two coffee mugs, gestured with them wildly. “You realize what a hash you’ve made of this?”
“Sophie, I—”
“
Where
have you
been
?”
Daniel stepped forward, took her forearms in his hands. “It’s complicated. I need to explain—”
“So explain already—”
“Which means,” he said, “I need you to shut up for a couple minutes.” He cocked his head, said, “Pretty please?”
She snorted a laugh. “Same old Daniel.” Sophie pulled her arms from his, poured the coffee, handed him a mug. “Okay, kiddo. Explain.”