Read The Two Deaths of Daniel Hayes for Free Online Page A

at the next intersection that looked like it might go somewhere. Out here, the police wouldn’t have many resources—no helicopters, no roadblocks. The key was to get some distance without blundering into them.
He punched up the onboard navigation system, zoomed out on the map. How come I know how to do this, how to turn off my running lights, but I don’t remember— later. He scanned the map, eyes flickering between it and the road. If he went north instead of west, he could pick up US-9, ride that up to I-95. With a little luck, he could clear the state in four, five hours.
The gun. He’d left the Glock in the hotel.
Want to go back for it?
He pushed down on the accelerator.
An hour and a half later, Bangor was a glow on the horizon. A sign welcomed him, announced that the population was 31,473; another pointed toward Bangor International Airport. Following the arrow, he found himself in a stretch of low-slung chain hotels, an Econo Lodge, a Howard Johnson, a Ramada. They had the look of places people came to hang themselves. He picked the Ho-Jo at random, pulled around back. The parking lot was only a third full.
His breath was fog. A plane took off half a mile away, the roar loud, red and green wing lights passing overhead as Daniel squatted behind a minivan with a bumper sticker announcing the owner’s kid was an honor student at Hermon High. He fanned out the keys on his ring, chose the slenderest one, and fit it into the first screw.
The cold stiffened his fingers and made him curse, and by the time he was done, he wasn’t sure the key would be much use as a key. But it did okay to attach the Maine plates to his BMW.
He had a pang of guilt, but pushed it down. You might need to do worse than steal some license plates. Better get used to that idea.
    Boston was about 250 miles. From there he could head west. No choice now. No explaining his condition and throwing himself on the mercy of the police. The only thing left to do was go to a place that scared the hell out of him.
Home.
     
W
    hen her alarm went off, Sophie Zeigler was in her kitchen, drinking coffee and chatting with Mick Jagger like the old friends they were. Not that she knew him personally, but in her flowers-in-your-hair days she’d seen Mick and the boys play a dozen times, and her only lesbian experience had been scored by Beggars Banquet , so “old friend” seemed as appropriate a term as any. In the dream, Sophie had leaned over to refill her mug, and when she’d turned back, Mick had unzipped his leather pants and was peeing in her sink. He looked sheepish but didn’t stop, and she was thinking how this was the kind of stunt that turned singers into rock stars, and how tiresome it must be to maintain. It was one thing to be twenty-five and beautiful as you hurled a TV out the window of the Chateau Marmont, but once your pubes were curling gray, it was time to call a halt.
    Then the drumming of his urine against the stainless steel sink became the droning buzz of the alarm, and the dream evaporated, the aroma of coffee seeming to float in its wake. She slapped the clock to silence. What a weird way to start the day. Everything she was dealing with, and this was what her subconscious had for her? Dreams about Mick Jagger’s sagging testicles, and memories of clumsy girl-gropings almost forty-years gone?
    Sophie swung her legs out of bed, rubbed sleep from her eyes. Padded to the window and pulled open the curtains. Early sunlight bathed her garden and the green square of her lawn. Some people griped about L.A. not having seasons, but there were two: “gorgeous” and “absolutely freaking gorgeous.”
    On a mat at the foot of her bed, she worked through a quick yoga routine. A couple of sun salutations, down-dog into cobra, just to limber up, build some heat. Caught her body in the mirror as she stretched, and smiled. People talked about sixty being the new fifty, but she was shooting for forty-five. In the bathroom, she brushed her teeth