John Keats 02 Paper Moon Read online

  Paper Moon

  Copyright © 2016 by Dennis Liggio

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For Kelly, who has waited longer than anyone for this.

  Prologue

  The boy awoke in darkness. He didn't know what had woken him; was it the sound of a gunshot he hadn't registered or was it a strange confusion that flooded his mind? He got out of bed, the hour and the status of his parents forgotten in this newfound curiosity that bordered on compulsion. Before he knew it, he was at the window, peering at the house next door, which was strangely still yet seemingly covered with a flickering halo of light - a prescient moment of the future.

  Compelled, he opened the window, unconcerned with his actions, which were so uncharacteristic, so strange. He had never snuck out of the house before. He slipped out the first floor window and through a gap in the fence he had never noticed but somehow knew was there. Once inside the neighbor's yard, he saw that the house was as still as before, the halo now more than flickering - it seemed to be a raging motion. Standing outside the house, the boy did not attempt to hide his presence, pulled as he was by an unknown force.

  He lifted one of the ground floor windows, finding it unlocked. He knew it would be. He climbed in clumsily, one of the legs of his pajamas snagging on a bush for a moment before coming free. He tumbled into the room, falling down into a small pile of torn paper on the floor.

  The first thing he noticed was the smell, strong and lingering. It reminded him of when his mother stopped at the Exxon station and he was allowed to go into the store to pick out candy. It was so overpowering that it was all he could smell; he definitely didn't detect the scent of blood in the other room.

  This room was the workspace of an artist. Easels and canvases dominated the room, paint supplies and a sink taking up one corner. Despite this, there was no art on display. The canvases were either blank or showing large gashed holes where their art had been cut away. The floor was filled with shreds from torn pages and ripped canvas. But while the evidence of the destruction lay all around, none of the art was there. That lay elsewhere, even now starting a fire whose scent had not yet penetrated this studio.

  There was an exception: a single torn piece of artwork that had escaped the furious destruction. The boy's eyes fell on it now, staring at the strange ripped paper. His eyes widened and soaked up the image. It was something he had never seen before, something that shocked and excited him, something that stuck very firmly in his mind. He decided this was very important, precious. He folded it and put it in his pocket to keep with him always.

  He had been acting strangely before this, his head full of strange noise, but now he found himself in an even thicker daze. In footsteps he would not remember, he took trance-like steps out of the room, ignoring the smoke, the room which had just started to burn, the room with the bloody body, and the woman on the bed who was looking for an escape. He ignored the sirens, he ignored the rest of the world as he opened the front door and walked outside.

  As the fire grew stronger in the house behind him, he walked across the lawn. The sirens were growing louder, but in his daze, the boy ignored them. Something was wrong, and he was fighting against it. Something alien was affecting him, but he didn't know what. As he struggled with what was in his mind, he stumbled into the street that was now lit with red and blue flashes. His legs took over for the impulse in his mind, so he ran, trying to fight against something so strange in his head.

  He finally grasped full control of his senses, pulling them from the alien impulse which had so controlled him. In his sudden clarity, his body straightened, becoming aware of the night and the street. And the car which hurtled toward him. There was no time to move and the driver did not see him until it was too late.

  There was pain, then everything went black.

  One

  The second time I saw the darkness was in a dream. Or so I thought.

  I wish it had been just a dream: forgettable, inconsequential. But it wasn't.

  The darkness churned up from horrifying depths, its endless blackness threatening to overtake the city as it searched for me, clawing the buildings, drowning the streets. I was high up, trying to avoid it, but I know now that no mere height can avoid it, that escape from it is futile, a useless hope.

  Unlike before, it did not call my name, uttering that word in twin voices, the syllables torn from the lips of one who I loved, one whose eyes had turned unfathomably black. It didn't have to. I knew it was the same darkness without its call.

  It would have been so easy to discount this as just a simple dream, a meaningless nightmare. I have had nightmares - I knew them far too well. But despite their discomfort and horror, their terror and pain, they still felt like dreams, like the frantic and impossible remnants of the past and the anxiety for the future. This dream of darkness was different. This dream lived and breathed, hot burning gasps of air that seared itself into my consciousness - an unforgettable stain I couldn't erase. This dream was as if I were awake, as if I were actually there, just in a different reality than the one I knew in my waking hours. Though I had recoiled in fear and hopelessness, as if reacting automatically to a simple dream that was fleeting and meaningless, I knew instinctively that the black waves which swirled below me like a whirlpool or a tornado were very real and extremely dangerous.

  This dream was just a prelude, a call across reality. Worse came after that.

  I should have let her kill me.

  I should have said no.

  I was running through the halls again, like a rat in a maze. Broken down corridors designed for public health and left to decay, then destroyed. Chipped white walls, flickering light fixtures, endless doors and countless turns. My feet slapped against the floor, barefoot, my slippers lost somewhere behind me that I couldn't remember. I was running for my life. It was behind me again. I wasn't sure which one it was, having only gotten quick glances around turns as I ran for my life. No wings, so it wasn't the knives. Maybe the deformed monstrosities, maybe the master of knives himself...

  It didn't matter, I was running for my life regardless of the identity of my pursuer. Terror howled through my veins, fear the only thing I knew. With what little voice I had, I babbled endlessly, the words always the same - IthoughtIgotoutofhereIthoughtIgotoutofhereIthoughtIgotoutofhere -

  I bolted upright in the borrowed bed, drenched in sweat, only half aware of the ringtone that had woken me. It was sometime in the afternoon based on the light which filtered through the blinds. I didn't recognize the room at first, then I remembered the hotel, the job. The call hit the maximum number of rings and went to voice mail, leaving me in silence to remember the dream.

  Bellingham again. Always Bellingham. The horrible mental institution where I rescued Katie Vanders and went into a horrible version of the Twilight Zone. Bellingham, where I wish I had never gone.

  It had been two years since I left that place, but I saw it nearly every night when I closed my eyes. Some part of me never recovered from that trip; some part of me felt like I had never left. Which is quite a mind fuck when you're trying to get on with your life. Luckily, these were just nightmares - conventional nightmares, not the dream of horrible blackness which was some messed up sort of real.

  I shook my head as if that would make the dream go away so
easily, but I didn't need to. The dream was already fading, the details of the nightmare receding like a tide, leaving just anxiety and poor sleep. I sat up in bed and saw my alarm hadn't gone off. I breathed in relief - I hadn't slept through it and fucked up this job. I groggily walked to the balcony and checked the camera. It wasn't show time just yet.

  My name is John Keats and I am a private detective. I'm no legendary battler of crime nor hardboiled curmudgeon, neither a Sherlock nor a Sam Spade. But neither am I one of the bad ones, a blackmailing asshole who would watch the world burn if he could get paid for it. I am just a man trying to get by on his strengths. And my strengths have always been disappointing. I'm good at digging through other people's shit to make a buck.

  I had a room at a luxury hotel in the Four Points area of Austin with an excellent view from the balcony. I could see the pool, some green hills, the hotel lobby Starbucks, and one lazy housewife on vacation sunbathing while her husband was probably off in a business meeting. Unfortunately, I wasn't here to enjoy myself or the opulence of the hotel. I was here because I was spying on someone.

  My tripod was setup on the balcony, a potted plant moved so that it hid the tripod from a casual glance. My camera was setup and ready, already angled toward the window of another hotel room across the courtyard. I knew the room he had booked, and I could see him in it now; I was just waiting for the show. I had set my alarm for when I expected his rendezvous. In case it wasn't clear: I was here to catch someone cheating on his wife.

  No matter how much I would like to do something else, no matter how much other credibility I desired, the harsh reality was that the backbone of my income was from finding incriminating evidence on cheating spouses. It's not what I want to do. But I fell into it and I am good at it. I know that my efforts are resulting in divorces, no matter how much I sugar coat it. I like to save my conscience with the thought that I'm not making these people cheat. They're making the bad choices themselves. I just happen to be exceptionally good at discovering it and documenting it. And then I deliver that information to their spouse to do with as they please. It's like a public service. Except I'm doing it for money.

  If you're uneasy with this, I would normally tell you that my own dislike for it keeps me up at night, but since Bellingham I haven't had a good night's sleep. That was two years ago. Yes, I am so very tired.

  Today's suspect was Roger Manheim, aged 43. My client, Kirstie Manheim, claimed that he had been emotionally distant recently, though that's not what tipped her off to possible infidelity. She said he hadn't been pestering her for sex as usual, yet he had a new spring in his step, one he was quick to hide when he noticed her watching. She also noted that he had been going to play golf far more often than usual. She didn't think this was a newfound love of the game, and based on the pictures she got me, his clubs didn't have more wear and tear for the increased activity. She was sure that he was cheating, so she wanted proof. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. It was my job to allay her fears or obtain evidence of the unfortunate truth.

  Yes, golf. The Manheims were rich, as were many of my clients. What can I say? If you're going to do hotel detective work, make sure you have rich clients. They pay well. Good evidence means better divorce settlements, so they'll throw cash at you if they think the cheating is real. In the cases where I can't find any evidence, you'd be surprised how often they think I'm bad at my job instead of the possibility that their spouse isn't cheating.

  I don't know how many more years I can do this. I'm losing any faith I ever had in humanity. The initial suspicion of someone they married is harsh to listen to, but at least they usually have valid reasons to suspect. But when they'd rather believe in a broken bond of trust than an absence of evidence, it makes me question relationships. Is that what marriage is? Is real love a broken fantasy? I'm single, so I'm asking.

  These jobs are also shit work, to be honest. You want a fulfilling job? Then don't do what I do. Get kids in Africa clean water, cure cancer, or campaign for world peace. Don't search for the worst in people's lives. Especially not if you can't handle boredom. Even if you enjoy the juicy details of sordid lives, you can spend hours waiting just to take two pictures of a cheating spouse getting it on with a Craigslist hookup. The Manheim job was actually better than many. At least this one had a hotel room (expensed to the client, of course). Other times I'm hiding in bushes, an adjacent rooftop, or spending far too much time in my car. My backseat is littered with the wrappers of granola, candy bars, and empty water bottles.

  Roger had been in the room at least an hour on his own, just waiting. That's actually not so strange. I've noticed many targets that want extra secrecy wait for their lover at the room rather than meeting in public. Roger had booked a room here last week, but I hadn't known about this place ahead of time, so I wasn't able to get a good room to take pictures from then. He was up there two hours and left looking more relaxed. Luckily for me, cheating spouses are creatures of habit, almost superstitiously. Once they've found a routine that feels safe, they keep doing it. So here he was again, the same hotel, the same room, the same time, waiting on his unknown lover. And so like a predator who only takes pictures, I waited. And when I bored of that, I set an alarm on my phone and laid down to try to catch some rest. But I didn't find rest, only Bellingham again. I rubbed my eyes, still so tired. Then I remembered the call.

  I checked the ID on the call and sighed. I called the number back, bracing myself for the poetry that came next.

  "'Tis the witching hour of night, / Orbed is the moon and bright, / And the stars they glisten, glisten, / Seeming with bright eyes to listen - / for what listen they?"

  "Hello Morty," I said tiredly, trying and failing to suppress a yawn. "It's the middle of the afternoon, not the witching hour, if you hadn't noticed."

  "This was simply what my eyes fell upon when I opened the book," he said.

  Since I share the name of a famous dead poet, Morty has always liked to quote me sections of the historical John Keats' works whenever he called me. To him it was an amusing little quirk that allowed him to call himself the patron of the arts. Morty has always been a good friend and had been good to me, but I was starting to get a little sick of the poetry. Of course, it might have been I was just in a poor mood because I was just barely awake from a nightmare, running on little sleep, and was stuck in a hotel with a camera trying to help someone get a better divorce settlement by catching their husband in flagrante delicto. That's not really my favorite set of circumstances.

  "So what have you got for me this time?" I said with a sigh. "Another cheating executive? Trophy wife infidelity? Spouse swapping musical chairs? A cavalcade of rich middle aged taboo sex that I have to take candid photos of?"

  I have to admit that both my success and my disappointment with my work was due to Morty. He was a rich developer who lived in the affluent Westlake area of Austin and moved in many of those social circles. When he heard of someone with fears of their spouse's loyalty, he discreetly sent them my way. He didn't ask for a referral fee, he just wanted to know the results. It amused him to know all his neighbor's dirty little secrets. Normally he just sent them to my office or my phone, but occasionally he called first to mention any "delicacies" of the upcoming job.

  Morty chuckled. "No, John, though I appreciate your tiredness with your least favorite type of work. But what if I had something else? Something not so sordid. What if I had 'real' detective work?"

  "Then I'd accuse you of bullshitting me," I said. Morty knew I didn't consider relationship spying real detective work and while he thought I was a fool for it, he knew I wanted other jobs. I did get other cases here and there, but none of it paid as well as rich cheating spouses and it didn't come around often. Even still, I relished when I could fit those jobs into my schedule. In those rare cases, my work seemed almost meaningful. Like it was something that might benefit society or at least not depress me late at night.

  "I know better than to tease my good friend, don't I?" He actually t
eased me a lot, if I do say so myself. Morty loved bullshit like a fish loves water. Luckily I've always been good at separating it from the truth. "But not this time, John. This time I am completely on the level, as they say. And it's a good one too. It's a missing person case."

  I paused. I hadn't had a missing person case in years. Not since... "You do realize how the last missing persons case went, don't you? It went bad and then got worse. I mean, sure I did actually find Katie Vanders..."

  "And got very well paid for it, I recall," said Morty.

  "Yes, but do you remember how messed up it was? That mental institution! I still have those nightmares..."

  "There will be no mental institution this time around, John. I promise."

  "You say that now...." I sighed. I scanned the window of Roger Manheim's hotel room, seeing Manheim pace back and forth nervously, a beer in his hand. Even if it was as bad as the Vanders Incident, the other job had to be better than this. I closed my eyes trying not to regret my decision. "Tell me about the case."

  "I know few details. The daughter of a business partner is trying to track down a friend and coworker who suddenly disappeared. As soon as I heard the poor girl's concerns, I knew you'd be the right person for it."

  "You're sure this isn't a 'find my ex' case?" I said.

  "It didn't sound like one, but I'll leave you to be the judge of that. You are the expert, after all."

  I rolled my eyes. "Give me her number." I scribbled down the digits on a hotel pad while keeping an eye on Roger Manheim's room. It was good that I did, because Roger had just received a call. It was quick, so my intuition was that it was someone saying they were coming up.

  "Gotta go, Morty. Duty calls."

  "I look forward to hearing about this one."

  "Bye, Morty."

  I pocketed the phone and positioned myself behind the potted plant at the camera. Whenever I'm on this sort of job manning the camera, I always perversely feel like I should have a bowl of popcorn. I'm waiting for something to happen, and when it does happen, I'm a passive observer operating a high speed shutter. I feel like the intended audience. It's not like I get some thrill from watching people have sex. I think I'm more entertained and shocked by the reckless and strange ways people spend their hidden time.