Nineteen: Obituaries
Max insisted that they go out and walk around the block until Chloe had calmed down enough to give her a proper coherent account of what she'd found. For ten minutes she stomped down the sidewalk, a cigarette between her lips, her hands balled in the pockets of her jacket while Max held on to their cooling coffee. After a few go-rounds, Chloe tossed the stub of her cigarette to the ground and crushed the embers under the toe of her boot like it had personally offended her.
"Let's sit down okay?" Max suggested, handing Chloe her coffee. They were standing on the edge of the empty lot across from the Bay Café, where the Bayview Motel had once stood. A California company that usually dealt with earthquakes had been hired by the county to clean up the storm damage and they'd already removed the debris. The only thing left was the cement medians in the tiny parking lot. They perched on one of these, backs to the water so they wouldn't have to look at the lighthouse. "What happened?"
Chloe sighed, the white puff of her breath hanging suspended for a moment in the cool air. Only after a few sips of coffee did she finally start to talk. "I Googled the shit out of her name and couldn't find anything. I found other Michelle Van Aardts on social media and all that, but nothing that looked like her. So I finally got the idea to search the Seattle Times. Everything from the past thirty years is searchable on their site. I thought maybe I'd get something about the shooting." Chloe unpacked Max's laptop and opened it to the page she'd been reading in the café. "Just read this."
Hands wrapped around her paper cup for warmth, Max's brow scrunched up as she peered at the screen. It was an obituary for Michelle Van Aardt, 22. It was brief. It said only that she was a former resident of Arcadia Bay and daughter of... of Evelyn Van Aardt. There couldn't possibly be more than one Van Aardt family in Arcadia Bay but... She couldn't believe it. There had to be a mistake. "But, Chloe, we saw her in the hospital. And then at the club on New Year's Eve. She didn't die in the shooting."
"Look at the date, Max."
Born March 3, died January 7, 1995. A week after the New Year's Eve party, a week after being introduced to Jefferson. "I–I don't understand. How..."
"That photo, Max... He must have... he must've done something to her."
Max felt like she'd swallowed a tray full of ice cubes and had them sitting in her gut. "What about Susan?"
Chloe shrugged. "I don't know. I didn't find anything but she's got a Google-proof name."
Max leaned into Chloe, pressing herself against her side. Chloe put her arm around Max's shoulders and they sat like that for a while as the lull of waves lapping against the shore filled the silence.
A truck rumbled past on the highway, startling words out of Max. "I guess I was hoping that they were out there somewhere. That they were okay. Like us."
"Me too."
It would have been so easy for Chloe not to be there. There had been so many times when Arcadia Bay had tried to snatch her away. Tears beginning to prickle her eyes, Max buried her face in Chloe's shoulder and took long breaths of her smoky scent. "I love you, Chloe."
Chloe's arms encircled her. "Love you too." She pressed a kiss to the top of Max's head. "You think it's too much to ask for us to just be happy? Would the universe fucking break apart if we were?"
Max pressed herself close to that body she'd been caressing just hours ago and tried to remember that blissful morning, lying in sunlight, lazy with joy. "You said Arcadia Bay was full of ghosts and monsters."
Chloe huffed. "Like a haunted house."
Max's thoughts returned to the graveyard, to Nathan's photo and the gravedigger. It was Michelle's mother who had died last month. He'd been digging up the same plot that held Michelle's remains.
I could frame any one of you in a dark corner, and catch you in a moment of desperation.
She could still hear Jefferson's voice, silky smooth and casual, even as he hinted at his darkest secrets. Like a game that he was masterminding. Always with him it was a matter of controlling others. He got off on it. Maybe the gravedigger photo hadn't even been Nathan's idea; maybe it was Jefferson who had spotted the obit and suggested it to his would-be protege. Another private joke. And then when he realized he had to dispose of Nathan... It would delight him, wouldn't it–the idea of hiding his latest victim with his first?
"Chloe?" Max said, raising her head to look at her girlfriend. "I think I know where Nathan's buried." Max explained her theory.
For a long time, Chloe was silent. Finally she shook her head. "David is never going to believe that."
"What about you?"
Taking Max's hand, she interlaced their fingers. "I'll always believe you, Max."
She squeezed those fingers. "I'm so glad you're here. I don't know what I'd have done if..." She shook her head. "I wouldn't be able to talk to anyone about what happened. No one would believe me. They'd pack me up and up and send me to the psych ward."
"But hey, free meds."
Max rolled her eyes and they headed off to find David.
They caught up to him outside the Blackwell dorms where he was overseeing a crew of workmen replacing the broken windows on the ground floor. "There goes our secret entrance," Chloe muttered.
But Max found herself smiling. The boarded up windows had made the dorm look derelict, like the abandoned storefronts in her vision. The clatter of drills and hammers became a cheerful chatter and somehow she felt... lighter. As if the plywood had been bandages that were finally being peeled away revealing something that was whole again.
Max took Chloe's hand and squeezed her fingers.
A frown and a weary sigh were the greeting they got when David spotted them. "You two don't know anything about a break-in last night?"
"A break-in?" Max repeated, her pulse jumping. She wasn't sure if he meant the archives or the dorm room. She wasn't sure which would be worse.
"Someone picked the lock on Principal Wells's office."
Chloe, arms crossed, head tilted to one side as she rolled her eyes, was the perfect picture of contempt. It was her default mode when dealing with David, and Max at once sympathised and wanted to shake her. They needed David on their side. "Sure wasn't us then. I can't pick locks worth shit."
"Thief skill zero," Max added with a little smile, hoping to remind Chloe of their original Blackwell raid, that night at the pool, and that beautiful lazy morning when Chloe had dared Max to kiss her.
David crossed his arms. "I didn't accuse you. I'm asking if you know anything. I know you were out late last night," he added.
Max jumped in before Chloe could get defensive again. "We saw someone at the front entrance. A woman. But it could've been anyone."
"When was that?"
Chloe and Max glanced at each other and finally Chloe shrugged. "One a.m. maybe?"
Stepping forward, Max steeled herself, trying to remember what it was like to be Super Max, that feeling of being invincible, of being able to change things... for the better. "David, there's something we need to talk to your about. I think I know where Nathan Prescott might be."
David heaved another sigh and Max spoke quickly before he could object. "There was an open grave in the cemetery just before the storm. Nathan did a photo shoot there for his contest submission so Jefferson would've known about it."
"And you think he just dumped the Prescott boy right in? That's awfully thin."
Max wanted to tell him about Michelle Van Aardt, about how it was also the grave of Jefferson's first victim. But there was no way to prove what they'd found any more than she could prove that Jefferson had confessed to her that he'd killed Nathan. Visions just didn't count in the legal system.
Chloe had moved closer, an arm around her waist, drawing her in. Chloe's warmth eased the hollow chill creeping up from her gut. Even if everything was broken, she still had Chloe.
David shook his head. "Jefferson is being transferred to State tomorrow. He'll be their problem from now on. You girls need to drop it and let the authorities do their job."
Pressed against Max, Chloe's whole body went rigid. "Like they did with Rachel?"
"Chloe, that was–"
"What? Different?"
"I was going to say it was my fault. I was following the wrong leads and I drew the wrong conclusions. And I was too late to help Rachel Amber. Or Kate Marsh. And it makes me sick to think what could have happened to you too."
She wasn't sure if Chloe's silence was from shock at David's words... or like Max's, because of what had happened, what Max had prevented. She squeezed Chloe tighter, trying to remind herself that Chloe was really real and there and not a ghost.
The whine of a power drill pierced the evening air. The workmen went about their business, oblivious to the shit going down over here. But it was always like that, wasn't it, Max thought. Everyone was in their little bubble and it was hard to really know what was happening to people even when they were only a few feet away. Even when they were right next to you.
It was a good minute before anyone spoke again. Finally, David cleared his throat. "Your mother's still waiting for your answer about Thanksgiving."
"Yeah," Chloe said, looking down at her boots, "I'll get back to her on that."
She muttered something about getting dinner and they walked in silence away from the dorm and back to the noisy cafeteria. Max barely tasted the mashed potatoes, coleslaw, and spam. Over and over, her mind returned to Michelle's final portrait and she knew what she had to do next. She waited until they were back in their tent to bring it up with Chloe.
Dropping down onto the floor of the tent, Max pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. "I feel like we're missing something."
Chloe snorted. "Evidence?"
"No, I– Well yes, but I mean besides that."
"A miracle?"
"Chloe." Chloe shrugged and sat down next to her, legs crossed, patting her pockets as if looking for a cigarette. "I was thinking about... the photo."
That got Chloe's full attention. Her face morphed into that pissed off scowl that was so unlike the Chloe she'd grown up with but so familiar to Max now. "Fuck that. The last time you touched that thing I found you passed out on the floor. Scared the shit out of me."
"I'm sorry." She hugged her knees tighter. Who was that girl she'd been in September? The one who'd waffled about contacting Chloe, afraid she'd be too mad to talk to her. The one who'd taken selfie after selfie, trying to prove to herself that she was really there. The one who'd been too chickenshit to enter a school photo contest. That Max Caulfield could never have fathomed all the things she'd done, all the decisions she'd made. And the ones she still had to make.
She sort of envied that girl. Max's eyes darted to her right, to the long-limbed, blue-haired, more-than-best-friend sitting there next to her. But that girl didn't have Chloe.
"There has to be a connection between the photo and the visions."
"Yeah the connection is that Jefferson is a murderous asshole and we should've shot him when we had the chance."
Max shuddered, the sound of the gunshot echoing in her mind. The prick of a needle. Chloe's body on the ground. She squeezed her eyes shut. "We never had the chance."
"If he gets off with this 'I was framed' shit, we're going to have to like... move to Maui and change our names to Megan and Ashley Smith,"
"Can I get dibs on Megan?"
"All right, fine." Chloe held out her fist for another round of rock-paper-scissors. "You win, you look at the photo, I win–"
"Chloe," Max cut in shaking her head. "I think I'm ready to make a real decision this time."
For several seconds, Chloe was very still. And then she turned to the box and dug out the photo. Her eyes lingered on the black and white image of Michelle, probably the last photo of her while she was still alive. "She's been dead all this time, Max. She's been dead since before you were even born."
Max knew she couldn't fix it, not even with rewind powers. Some things were set in stone. She was just grateful that Chloe's death hadn't been one of them.
Looking up at Max, Chloe sighed. She opened her arms wide. "Come here."
Max scooted over to her and settled herself against Chloe, lying back against her chest, tucked in between her knees. Chloe's arms closed around. Only then did she hand Max the photo.
#
When Max opened her eyes she was standing again in the streets of Arcadia Bay among buildings untouched by time-tornadoes. But it was the mutedness of everything that really made Max aware of the tenuousness of this place. It was as if she'd shoved a pair of earbuds into her ears, making everything muffled.
Spinning in place, it took a moment for Max to get her bearings. Arcadia Bay's handful of city buildings clustered together, a few blocks down from the main drag. The tiny post office sat next to a rectangular red brick building with the words "City Hall" emblazoned above the front entrance. The dreary grey cube squatting next door was the police station. Everything looked shabbier than Max remembered: paint peeled off the door to the post office, rust speckled the wrought iron railing along the City Hall front steps, and graffiti marred the sullen grey walls of the police department.
A crowd was gathered in front of City Hall. She spotted at least three news crews–two from Seattle and another from Salem, Oregon. A figure cut through the knot of flashing cameras and outstretched mics. They fell away as he ascended the modest steps of City Hall and turned to them. The familiar smug look on Jefferson's face made Max's gut clench with fury, her fists balled at her sides. He'd won the game. And he knew it.
He was wearing a mic and after a cheeky, "testing one, two, three," sound check, he cleared his throat and addressed the audience. He opened with some pandering niceties, laying on the charm, just as he had during classes so that you'd never suspect what a monster he really was.
"You all know the facts of the case," he said finally. "The crimes I was accused of have now been proven–in a court of law–to be the result of a single, very unstable young man. Nathan Prescott." He paused, and, as if deeply grieved, shook his head. "A young man I attempted to guide and mentor. His family exploited that relationship to try to lay the blame for his crimes on me. With deliberate and malicious intent, they lured me into a position where I could be implicated in their son's crimes." He turned towards the neighbouring building that housed Arcadia Bay's police force. "I was arrested, interrogated, and charged in that very building, by a police force who were more interested in pleasing the Prescott family than in administering justice."
Liar! You are such a fake! Max wanted to scream it. Scream, that he was a liar, a monster. Would it even matter in this place if it wasn't really real? If it was just the shade of world that might have been? But she'd come here to learn something and if that meant listening to Jefferson's poison... then she would do it.
"My reputation and good name have suffered irreparable damage as result of the gross negligence and corruption of this city and its police force and the influence of the Prescott family. As a result I've decided to take legal action against both parties."
Camera flashed and the reporters started shouting questions. Max wanted to spit. He'd obviously decided to return here for the announcement because he thought it would make for good drama. Everything was always an act with him and he loved to hide in the spotlight.
He'd started taking questions from the reporters. But as their cameras filmed and flashed, something to one side caught her eye, a figure crossing the street from next to the bank. A hood was pulled up over her head, but Max stood at just the right angle to see her face. A woman, blond, middle-aged... and familiar. Max remembered her from last month. The day she'd been meeting Chloe at the Two Whales that same woman had been standing at the bus stop and had asked if the bus had been by. She'd been looking for a second job and needed to get to Newport for an interview.
With quick strides, the woman reached the knot of reporters. Something was clutched in her hand as she raised it.
A bang, deafening at this range. Cold shot through Max's body. Like a camera zooming in, her eyes focussed on Jefferson. Blood blossomed on his blazer. Another shot and more blood. He was staggering, falling. Another, and blood erupted from his face.
Max doubled over, trembling in every limb. The last thing she saw was the hooded woman with the gun. She was smiling.
#
Max jerked forward. And immediately felt the reassuring pressure of Chloe's arms tightening around her. "Oh fuck." Her heart hammered in her chest and her breath came in pants.
Chloe leaned into her, pressing her cheek against Max's. "It's okay, Max."
"No. It's not." She disentangled herself from Chloe so that she could look her in the face. "Someone shot Jefferson."
"Good."
Max shook her head. "No, it was... it was awful." The everyday sounds from outside–heavy boots stomping past the tent, murmured conversations, the roar of a motor from the parking lot–weren't enough to drown out the roar of screams that still echoed in Max's thoughts. "Chloe... the woman who stole your gun, what did she look like?"
Chloe shrugged. "Blonde. Middle aged. Taller than you."
Goose bumps prickled Max's skin. "That's her. That sounds just like the woman I saw in the vision. And if she has your gun..."
The expression on Chloe's face was one she'd seen before, the night they'd found Rachel's body, the scowl of an avenging angel. "Then he'll finally get what he fucking deserves."
She reached out and grabbed Chloe's wrist. "No, we need to stop her."
"What?"
"We need to prove he's guilty."
"Who the fuck cares if we prove it? If someone blows his head off that's even better."
"The art world will care."
A bark of laughter. "The art world. Good one, Max. Yes, let's save asswipe's life because of the art world." Chloe huffed. "Weak."
"Chloe, listen to me," Max said, trying to hold Chloe's furious gaze. "If he gets shot, people are just going to remember Arcadia Bay as the place a famous photographer was murdered. No one will want to help rebuild the town and Jefferson will be in every photography textbook as this tragic 'killed before his time' figure," she said, miming a professorial voice. She shook her head. "He'd be remembered for it. I'd have to study him in college and it makes me sick."
"What's the difference, Max? Alive or dead he's already in the books. So he might as well be a dead artist."
Grasping Chloe's hands in hers, Max tried to send her thoughts through those hands, through her veins, trying so desperately make her understand. "If we can find proof, enough to get him convicted, his photographs will fall out of favour. When they talk about him in classrooms it'll have to be with a discussion about the artist isn't the art. Once those photographs from the dark room become public it'll make people question all of his photographs, whether it's really art or not. It'll destroy his artistic reputation. After everything that's happened, I want to help Arcadia Bay, not make it famous as the place a prominent photographer was murdered." She could see it now. People would burn candles and leave bouquets at the spot. "They'd probably commission a memorial plaque."
This got zero response from Chloe so Max pressed on. "He thinks of himself as an artist before anything else. It's all he talked about in the dark room. About his vision and all that bullshit. His reputation as an artist means more to him than his life, Chloe. That's what I want to take away from him."
The dark room... It was still inside of her, a part of her that could go from crippling fear to savage anger in a moment, a corner of her mind that would always be in the dark. She could feel it slithering up from somewhere deep in her chest, turning every part of her rigid and brittle, turning her words to jagged steel. "I don't want to kill him. I want to destroy him. I want to take away what's most important to him. I want him to live the rest of his life knowing that he won't be remembered as anything but an everyday sicko."
Chloe held her head in her hands. "Shit." She clenched her jaw tight and Max wasn't sure if she was holding back tears or about to smash something.
"Chloe–"
"Stop. Just... stop." She pawed around her piles of things for a minute until she found a half-smoked joint. She lit up and inhaled deeply as the pungent scent filled the small space of their tent. "He's being transferred tomorrow morning. You want us to... what? Be his bodyguards till he gets transferred to State?"
"Something like that. It's the only time she'll have a chance to shoot him. At least anytime soon."
Heaving a sigh, Chloe settled herself on her pillow amid her piles of clothes and rumpled blankets. "We don't even know if they can make the charges stick."
An inkling of hope skittered through Max's veins. "We'll figure something out. And I promise if someone wants to kill him later I'll be completely fine with it.
Chloe exhaled a cloud of smoke and stared up at the tent ceiling. "Fuck my life."
And Max knew that, for better or worse, she had won.