The laptop yields no smoking gun, no treasure map, no dear diary explaining everything. It's full of mundane school stuff: homework, schedules, research projects (Flora and Fauna in Native American Mythology of the PNW), play scripts, notes on Wuthering Heights ("Catherine and Heathcliff - How Are They The Same" is the actual name of one of the files).
The email box is full of unread spam, and judging by their number and timestamps, the email hasn't been checked in, oh, about two weeks and a half? Which means... no, it doesn't mean that.
The search history is straight up fucking with her. It shifts and slips and jumps from flashback to memory to who knows what.
Arcadia Bay Golf sale
Pan Estates land deed
property insurance fire illegal
sera gearhardt
culmination park fire cause
time travel possible?
I'm about to binge on "Quantum Leap"
biggest cloud in history
thunderbirds and the water spirits
congrats to wonderful cast and crew of the Tempest!
chaos theory
How to clear browser history?
Hey Steph, any update on Mikey?
It makes her want to throw the laptop at the wall. And to throw up. Before she succumbs to either or both, she pushes the worthless thing to Steph and gets up to go smoke outside. Steph nods and takes over with the gusto of an overpaid federal agent.
There are only two other cars in the motel's parking lot. All the windows are dark. Everything is quiet. A single moon is rising above the eastern hills. The ocean breeze makes Chloe shiver, as she lights a cigarette. She gets her denim jacket out of the truck and puts it on. To the left, the water tower and the question float above the swaying trees.
The sound of the truck door slamming shut echoes like a bolt of Zeus's thunder. She kicks the poor tire and burns half a cigarette in one drag, but it's not helping. Tony's is just around the corner, a thought comes. A six-pack might do the trick. Or maybe a flask of Jack. Or both.
Yes, now that she's well over the exuberance of the successful start to her hacking career, Chloe is upset.
Why did she have to use that as her password?
Why didn't she change it?
It might have meant something once, but now? Habit?
How long have I been a habit for her?
How long have we been a habit?
"My habit's been to keep my soul well-draped," Rachel-Prospera says.
"Oh, shut up!" Chloe shouts. "Don't talk to me like you're… talking to me!"
A light comes on in the room next door. Chloe flicks her cigarette in its direction and storms back inside. Steph's acting like she hasn't heard.
"I'm losing my mind, Steph," Chloe says. "It's embarrassing."
"You wanna talk about it?"
"Nah. Better tell me you found something."
"How about 'Show, don't tell'?"
Steph turns the laptop back over to Chloe. Displayed full-screen is a picture of Rachel on a motorcycle. It's an Indian, with tassels on handlebar and a red-and-white fuel tank. Unfamiliar. Rachel is posing, as only she can; a perfectly random and spontaneous combination of bent and stretched limbs, arched back and tilted face that would make anyone else (Chloe, for example) look like a perfect idiot, but on her makes it seem like she was captured in the midst of a beautiful dance. She's wearing blue jeans, leather ankle boots and a brown leather jacket. In the background there's a bush and a tree and a grassy slope. Could be anywhere. Could be Blackwell parking lot. A dark-visored helmet is sitting on the grass next to the rear wheel.
"I would join a motorcycle gang," Chloe thinks to herself, staring at a row of parked bikes at the abandoned mill. "If I had any friends."
"Is Jefferson a biker?" she asks.
"You tell me," Steph says. "Too bad he isn't in the photo."
"Oh yeah," Chloe says and chokes a little. "Too bad."
Something in the visor catches her eye. She zooms in as close as she can. There's a figure of the photographer, too blurry and vague to even tell if it's a man or a woman, but there's also a wire fence and a piece of a blue rail.
"I know this place."
"What?"
"Where this picture was taken. This is at the skate park. See that rail? I hurt myself too many times on that to not know it."
"Awesome, Dr. Price. So… what's next?"
"Skate park means Justin Williams."
Justin refuses to respond to texts at 2AM, and Steph, although stoic, looks like she's about to keel over. They agree to let the case and themselves rest until morning. Steph proceeds to keel over, while Chloe lies on her bed staring into the darkness.
John Doe the Free Man.
John Doe the Biker.
John Doe the Photographer.
John Doe the Older.
John Doe the New Flame.
John Doe the replacement for oppressive, clingy Chloe Price.
Is he, doe?
Rachel posing. Maybe for him, but posing. Just posing.
John Doe the Darkness.
The next light she sees is of the buzzing, flickering, fluorescent variety.
Sinks, faucets, soap dispensers, foggy mirrors. She spins around, thinking she's back in the Blackwell bathroom, but not quite. There are curtains instead of stall doors. The middle one is pulled to the side. On the white tile wall, in black permanent marker that is so like the marker she uses to tag shit, there is graffiti reading:
RACHEL AMBER IS A WHORE.
Blackwell girl dormitory showers.
She's wearing teal pajama pants and a white t-shirt. She's barefoot.
The curtain on the right is closed. There's a sound of running water. Steam billows up from behind it.
"Hello?"
The door slams open, making her jump.
Brown leather jacket. Gold chain. Gelled up hair.
"What the fuck are you doing here, Prescott?" she demands. "With a gun?"
He's pointing the gun at her face, though he wasn't a moment ago.
"It's my dorm," he says. "What the fuck are you doing here? With a gun?"
He's right. There's a gun in her hand, too. She tries to raise it, but it slips out of her fingers and falls to the floor with a loud bang. She bends down to pick it up, but it's gone.
"I'm… uh… looking for Rachel…" she says.
"Looking for Rachel," he repeats, mockingly. "Why? Do you miss her? You could never keep her, anyway. You can't even hold on to your gun. I bet no one's going to miss your punk ass."
"Get that gun away from me, psycho!"
"Never come on my property and tell me what to do, bitch!"
"Stop it, Nathan!" a voice behind her.
Max?
No. It's Steph, wet-haired and dressed in shorts and t-shirt with a bright yellow chick on it, stepping out of the steaming stall.
Prescott draws back in surprise, his gun twitching between the two of them now.
"Oh, great! Another dyke trying to tell me what to do!"
"Steph, no!"
But Steph is not listening.
She seems to slip on the wet floor, except instead of falling she reappears next to Nathan, slapping the gun away with her left hand and then, with a shocking yell, absolutely unloading on his chin with the bottom of her right foot, in a completely bananas display of kung fu.
Prescott's designer shoes come up level with Chloe's face, as he flies back and out of the door he's just barged in through.
In the room 113 at the Harbor Inn, Chloe Price wakes up from her own laughter.
