One of Us. Michael Marshall Smith
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I was on the verge of shouting I put the menu to one side and just waited instead.
After the meeting in Stratten's office life carried on pretty much the same, superficially at least. I could still go more or less where I wanted, though I took more care to cover my tracks. I gave up the one-night stands, with very little regret. If the only way you can feel alive is with a novel breast in your hand, you're not doing either of you any good. I closed out all my old credit cards, and got new ones under fake IDs. I worked maybe one, two nights on dreams, just to keep my hand in, then a couple of times a week I'd get a call and be told to be somewhere secluded, with my new machine, at a particular time. I had to let them know exactly where I was, because memories have greater weight than dreams and can only be transmitted somewhere specific, but I made sure I was on the road again an hour later. I also made sure I was alone at the moment of transferral, because when you're giving or receiving memories your mind's wide open, and it wouldn't take much for someone to implant a little suggestion there.
A momentary blackout, and then a part of someone else's life was in my head. Sometimes the fragments were as long as a few hours, but generally they were much shorter. I kept them for an afternoon, a couple of days, a week at the most, and then a similar session would take them away again.
Most of the memories were straightforward. I was never told why a client was leaving them with me, but it was pretty easy to guess. Once a week a guy would lose the fact he was married, so he'd feel less guilty while he was spending the afternoon with his mistress. An executive would obscure an object lesson his mother had given him about morality, so as to make fucking over a colleague a little easier. A woman would forget something harsh she said to her little sister, minutes before a car mounted the kerb and killed her, just so as to find a little peace.
Adolescent experiments with people of the same sex. Financial indiscretions. Sticky afternoons with borderline-legal prostitutes. The usual trivia of sin.
Others were stranger. Fragments, like a cat walking along a wall, jumping safely to the ground, and then turning a corner and disappearing. A girl's face, laughing, with branches moving gracefully in the wind overhead. The sound of a stream gurgling past an open window in a bedroom at night. I never got any context, just those little pieces of remembrance, and had no way of working out why someone might pay five large ones for a holiday from them.
It was kind of weird to spend an afternoon, once a week, convinced I had married someone called David, but I'm a fairly together guy and realized it wasn't likely I would forget something like that if it had really happened. Some of the dumps contained strong elements of their owners' more general personality: little parallel universes, sideways glimpses of other possible lives and fates. But most of the memories were already used to being shunted to the side, and didn't really mess me up. I hemmed them in with enough self-awareness to undermine the truths they purported to tell, and after the allotted time the client took them back, and they were gone from my head. I could remember what it was that I briefly held a memory of, but there was no confusion. I could tell, once it had gone, what was my experience and what had been someone else's.
I don't know if there were any side effects. Maybe a few. I found myself getting tired more easily, and misbehaving less, but that could have been any number of things. I'd been on the road too long. Maybe the time was coming when I needed to settle down again. Doing that would mean giving up the memory and dream work, because a stationary target would be easy for the Feds to find. I knew that what I did was harmless, but they'd be likely to see it another way. I didn't know if I was ready to stop earning this kind of money yet, and I didn't know whether Stratten would let me. Also there was the small question of who I'd settle down with. I had good friends in LA, like Deck, but nobody significant of the opposite sex. There hadn't been anyone like that, if the truth be known, for over three years. Most men, in their heart of hearts, believe that there's something that they can do, some change that can be made in their lives, which will help them find that special person. Find as many of them as possible, in fact, especially ones with cute bisexual friends. For me it was travelling around, but I was only looking for one. The one for me. I guess I believed that if I kept on moving, sooner or later, in some unregarded burg in the middle of nowhere, I'd turn a corner and find her – that person who'd always been looking for me too. It was my version of the trail that must start somewhere, I suppose. I also suspected that I'd already had that person, and that the trail had stopped there.
So I carried on, caretaking pieces of other people's lives, and wishing that once in a while someone would lend me a good memory for a change. I toyed with a little smack every now and then, just to dull the noise of other people's bad times in my head. I discovered what it was like to be someone else, and found myself even less inclined to own a gun. I got occasional headaches, bad enough to put me on the bench for a few days.
But for the most part it was okay, and if I needed a reason, I just watched the money flowing into my account.
Until three days ago, it had all been going fine.
I should have worked it out a lot sooner. The suite door left unlocked was a big clue, if nothing else, and I knew better than anyone what it was like inside her head. But I had no reason to expect her to do something stupid – had good evidence to think otherwise, in fact.
After about ten minutes I stood up and hung outside the bathroom door. Sure, women can spend untold amounts of time in the tub, but three o'clock in the morning is rarely the chosen time. They usually save that kind of indulgence for when you're already late for going out. I was prepared to be accommodating, because I know how important feeling clean can be, but I really didn't have time for this. The cops outside would be long gone, and I wanted to move. I had to talk to people, make arrangements. My head seemed to be fairly stable, but that wouldn't necessarily last. I also wanted to check the news.
Then I realized what was missing. I leaned my head close and listened. There was no sound now, no humming, not even the smallest swish of water being moved by a desultory hand. I tried the door. It was locked.
I kicked it down.
Laura Reynolds was lying in a tub of cooling water, still wearing her panties and bra. The rest of her clothes were folded neatly on the toilet seat. Her head had flopped across onto her shoulder, and her eyes were closed. Her sharp, pretty face had gone smooth and still. The water was red, and there was blood all over the tiled floor. Her skin was white, lips blue.
I started moving very fast.
I yanked the plug out the tub, grabbed a couple of hand towels from the rail. Her right arm was lolling just under the water. As I pulled it up I saw that the cut wasn't as deep as it could have been, and that she'd missed the major tendons. I wrapped it tightly in the towel and hung it over the edge of the tub, then reached across for the other arm.
The cut there was a lot deeper, probably the opening slice. Though maybe not: could be the weaker cut had been the first, and when she'd seen the tunnel open in front of her had decided she might as well run down it as fast as she could. Blood was still slicking out of the wrist in major quantities, and once the towel was round it I saw this wasn't going to be enough. Hot water and alcohol had thinned her blood, and it was eager to come out and play. A hotel dressing gown hung on the back of the door, and I tugged the belt out and tied it tight round her upper arm. She stirred then, for the first time, one of her eyelids flickering like some bug's sluggish wing.
Bracing myself with one foot on the other side of the tub, I leaned forwards and tried to pull her up. Though slim, she was about as easy to manoeuvre as the hotel, and I nearly pitched forward onto my face. Eventually I got her slumped against the back wall, and held her there while I grabbed the gown and wrapped it round her shoulders. I tried getting her arms through the holes, but it was too difficult and I didn't want to dislodge the towels. In the end I just tipped her over my shoulder and carried her into the bedroom.
She moaned quietly as I lay her on the bed, but made no sign of moving. I re-opened her suitcase, grabbed a few handfuls of clothes and pushed them into the pockets of my coat. Then I hauled her back over my shoulder and carried her out into the corridor. A quick look either way told me no-one was about, which was good, because this was going badly enough as it was. It didn't even occur to me that I should have looked for her purse until the elevator