Secret Worlds (156 page)

He grabbed my wrist and pulled me towards him. I screamed and tried to yank my arm free. I turned to run back down the hallway but it seemed to stretch for miles with no end in sight, no door on the other end to run through. The man folded my arms across my chest and held me against him with inhuman strength, his lips brushing my ear.

“Make no mistake. I will find you and you will help me. Your Father is not the only one with a plan.”

He dragged me, kicking and struggling, backwards towards the darkness.

I woke up, groping in the dark for my gun when I noticed someone in front of my bed.

“Jordan, calm down! It’s me!” Michael strode into the moonlight cascading in from the window opposite the bed. How long had I been asleep? I slid the gun back underneath the pillow and pressed my hands over my eyes, trying to slow my breathing. The effects of the nightmare still raced through my body like a drug. I hadn’t felt such intense fear before, not since the night I killed that man.

“Nightmare?” Michael asked, casting a concerned look over my shaking shoulders. I rubbed my arms to settle the goosebumps and merely nodded, still too bothered to come up with a sarcastic remark.

“You have them every night, don’t you?”

I glanced up at him, frowning. “How did you…?”

He pulled out the bottom drawer of my nightstand. I winced. There was a small glass and a large bottle of strong whiskey inside. One of the few perks of living next to a liquor store. “Just a guess.”

“I really don’t appreciate you snooping around me when I’m asleep,” I grumbled, tossing back the covers. A quick glance at the clock clued me in to the fact that it was past eight. I’d been asleep for nearly six hours.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?”

“We had a fight. I went for a walk. You were asleep by the time I got back so I decided to let you rest. That was before I knew about the nightmares, though,” he said, brushing the back of his fingers against my cheek. The gesture made me jump. I then realized that there were tracks of tears drying on my skin. Shit.

I wiped my face and stood up, pretending not to care. “Well, you should have gotten me up. We still have work to do.”

He was still staring at me with that soft expression. I let out a frustrated sigh. “Oh, don’t give me that look. I thought we had mutual disdain for each other. Don’t go ruining it by actually caring about me.”

“It’s high time someone did.” His voice was hard to place so I couldn’t tell if he meant the comment or not. I sifted my fingers through my hair and walked towards the door without answering, partially because I didn’t know what to say and wasn’t sure I wanted to continue the conversation.

“Did anything happen when you went for that walk?” I called over my shoulder, sitting in front of the laptop and tapping it awake.

“Not really. I went around the park a few times. Decided not to murder you in your sleep,” he added with a small smirk.

“How kind of you. Aha!” I discovered that Vincent had indeed emailed me back.

Michael leaned over my shoulder. “I knew I wasn’t the only person who says ‘aha.’ Is that what I think it is?”

“Yep. Your address.” I copied and pasted the address into a Map Quest tab I’d opened and set about copying directions. Still hadn’t gotten around to buying that printer yet.

Once I finished, I folded the paper and slipped it in the back pocket of my jeans, then went to the fridge to get a drink. “Hey, Jordan?”

“Yeah?”

“Did I thank you?”

I thought about it. “No, I guess not.”

Michael gave me a small smile. “I will.”

I couldn’t resist a grin. “At least we know the movie quotes part of your memory is back.
Desperado
? Really?”

“Aw, c’mon,” the poltergeist protested, adopting a faux hurt look. “I thought that sounded cool. It’s classic Robert Rodriguez.”

I took a long swig from my water bottle and replaced it on the shelf, shutting the fridge door. “If you say so. Hold on, I’ve got to grab something before we go.”

Normally, I didn’t need to resort to carrying the handgun with me but there was always the chance that his killer, assuming if there was one, was still in the vicinity. The gun itself was nothing fancy—a .38 Chief Special Smith & Wesson revolver. I had two copies of the permit for it: one in my home, the other in the lining of my coat. The inner pocket of the duster was just the right size for it to fit comfortably but still be able to be drawn easily. I didn’t expect I would need to use it, but better safe than sorry.

“Do you really think I’ve been murdered?” Michael’s voice was soft, but I still heard it from across the bedroom. He stood in the doorway with a rather solemn expression. Words failed me. Would he really want to hear the answer? If it were me, would I want to know if someone killed me? Maybe.

I took a deep breath. “I’ll be honest with you. It doesn’t look good. The fact that no one knows you’re dead yet makes me worry that your death might have been intentional.”

I stepped closer to him, staring all the way up into his face. “But if you want the truth, I don’t think the reason you died was your fault. You’re a pain in the ass, but you’re a good guy. I’m sorry this happened to you.”

He gazed at me for a handful of seconds before nodding and his hair slid forward into his eyes. For some reason, it was the first time Michael seemed human. He was always so amiable and confident that seeing him be vulnerable felt odd.

“Thank you.”

“Come on. Let’s go find some answers.”

We made good time—a half-hour ride on the bus followed by a five-minute walk to the building. The one bedroom apartment was on the third floor. The hallway housed bare white walls and grey carpeting with eight other rooms on each side. A couple of newspapers were curled up outside of the door. I tried the knob. Unlocked. Shit.

I motioned for Michael to be quiet and fished the gun out of my inner pocket. I nosed the door open an inch at a time until the light from the hallway shone in. The first room was clearly a den with a squishy, faded black couch and a glass coffee table covered in sheet music and magazines in front of a decent-sized television set. I took slow, measured steps to make sure my feet made no noise and checked behind the couch. Nothing.

Pausing, I removed the flashlight I’d brought just in case and held it parallel to the gun. The kitchen was clear as well, sporting only dirty dishes and opened cereal boxes. The last room was to my right. Probably the bedroom. I took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.

“RROW!”

I shrieked, nearly firing off a shot as a black cat scurried past my knees with an indignant meow. The animal gave me a curious look with its golden eyes. She had a red collar with the name “Bast” on it in white lettering. Only Michael would name his cat after an Egyptian goddess. I let out a relieved sigh before shoving the door the rest of the way open with my foot.

“You’re lucky you didn’t get shot, furball,” I muttered, flipping on the light to the bedroom. Nothing in here, either. The bed was a queen-size with rumpled blue sheets and a black comforter. A bookshelf that sagged under the weight of its books had been shoved against the far wall. Pocketing the flashlight, I checked underneath the bed, but there was nothing under it but unwashed socks and lint. Why had the door been unlocked? Nothing appeared out of place like he’d been robbed. My gut told me something was up.

I checked the bathroom and closet before heading out of the room only to find Michael crouching in front of the cat.

“Jordan, you’re not gonna believe this—the cat can totally see me.”

I put the gun away. “No way.”

“Yes way.” He held his hand outstretched and moved it from side to side. The cat’s head moved from side to side as well.

I knelt, rubbing the cat under her chin. “You guys really are half in and half out, huh?”

“What?”

“Nothing. C’mon, it’s time to start looking for clues to who you are.” I stood and brushed off my knees, sliding the gun back in my pocket. We split up. I went around the den to search for his wallet in case it was here instead of with his body and Michael disappeared into his bedroom. The television sat on top of a small cart with DVDs packed into it, everything from
Citizen Kane
to
Independence Day
. From the looks of it, Michael was nothing more than your average American guy. Across from the coffee table, I discovered a one-drawer file cabinet and opened it, hoping to find something interesting. The bulk of the files inside was sheet music, but the very last folder held something interesting: hospital bills and a page with a diagnosis on it.

“Michael, get out here!” I called.

He reappeared, jogging over to me. “Found something?”

“I’ll say. According to this, you were badly injured in some sort of fight. You had a skull fracture and they treated you here in town. They say you suffered from retrograde post-traumatic amnesia.”

Michael’s eyes widened. “What? I thought amnesia wasn’t even real?”

“As far as I know, it’s possible. It’s just extremely unlikely. The way I hear it you have to be both injured and have witnessed something emotionally traumatizing. The records say this happened a couple years ago.” I frowned, trying to mull the new facts over in my head.

“So I was severely injured two years before I died? There’s no way that’s just a coincidence,” he said, damn near reading my thoughts.

“Agreed. Did you find anything in your bedroom?”

“Nothing but clothes, books, and old pizza boxes. The room, though…it feels familiar. I knew where stuff was almost unconsciously. It was weird as hell.”

“Good. You’re making progress.”

“Thank you, Dr. Phil,” he said, pointing back to the file. “What else have they got on me in here?”

“You’re twenty-four years old, your blood type is AB negative, and…damn.”

“What?”

“Your parents aren’t listed. Not sure if I can find your next of kin without reporting you missing, which we can’t do since your body’s not here.” I let out a sigh. “I swear, I am just going to drop this case.”

Michael laughed. “Wow, thanks.”

“Oh, cut me some slack. I’m not a detective. I’m a damn waitress. Some of this stuff is beyond my resources.”

“Hey, you’re a pretty smart waitress. I doubt the average person could have figured out half as much stuff as you did.”

I resisted the urge to frown. Again, compliments. Not used to them.

I flipped the folder closed and folded it enough to fit in one of my pockets. “Just…help me search for receipts. If we can figure out what places you frequent, maybe we can find out where your body is.”

I sifted through the piles of sheet music and magazines on the coffee table, locating a handful of receipts in the process. Michael went into the kitchen to search there as well. I sat on the couch to go through them. The black cat hopped up next to me, pushing her head underneath my hand. I scratched the spot between her ears as I read them aloud.

“A few from McDonalds, Starbucks, Guitar Center…nothing too special. It’s all stuff around this area. At the very least, we can take your picture around and ask if anybody’s seen you recently.”

“Sounds like a plan. Shouldn’t we stop by Devil’s Paradise
tonight too?”

“Yeah. Your band might be there. Still, we don’t know what they look like.”

“This might help.” I glanced up to see Michael holding a digital camera. He handed it to me, taking a seat. The cat crawled across my lap to settle on his. How unnerving. I started flipping through the memory card: pictures of the park, a couple of instruments, and at last Devil’s Paradise.

“I think these may be photos from your performance the other night.” The first picture of the club had a massive crowd in line outside. The next depicted a blurry but definite picture of Michael on stage with his band. He stood out in front beside a short brunette with a streak of white in her bangs. Behind him stood a tall black guy with a faux-hawk and a skinny blonde girl with short hair. I could just barely make out the drummer in the back—a dark-haired Hispanic guy. There were a handful of these pictures all taken from different angles but the date at the corner confirmed they had been taken August 5th, 2010.

“Alright, now at least we know who we’re looking for,” I said, standing.

Michael scooped up the cat and deposited her on the couch. She hopped to the floor and wandered into the kitchen to drink water from a bowl on the floor by the counter. I made a mental note to come back and feed her.

“Anything else you think we need?” Michael inquired.

I thought about it and then an idea hit me. “Spare key?”

“Oh. Sure.” Michael opened the file cabinet and stuck his hand inside, bringing out a key that had been taped to the inside of the drawer. After a second, he realized what he’d just done and shot a surprised look at me.

“How’d I do that?”

“Habitual memory. I figured you’d react without thinking about it,” I explained, stashing the key in my pocket. At least now we could actually lock the door.

Luckily, we’d gotten out in time to catch the next bus to Devil’s Paradise. When we pulled up to the stop across the street, I began to regret coming here on a Saturday night. The line stretched down the block: Goth punks, girls in tiny skirts, and guys with faux-hawks. Two bouncers stood outside the double doors, eyeing each person before allowing them inside and refusing those who didn’t make the cut. The white guy on the right had a neck as thick as a ham and a body like the trunk of a Redwood. The black guy on the left was easily over six-feet tall and could probably bench-press a Volvo. Great.

“I can see this being a problem,” Michael said, letting his eyes scan over the long line. I raked a hand through my hair as I tried to figure out what to do. My outfit was far too casual to get me in. It wasn’t like I could bribe the bouncers: I had maybe twenty bucks.

“Any bright ideas, rock star?”

“Prostitution?”

I sent him a hateful glare while he just held up his hands in surrender. “Sorry. I got nuthin.’ There’s no point in having me sneak in there because I can’t talk to anyone.”