The Other Daniel - A Camille Grisham Novella (6 page)

But this was not that day.

A trip to his gun safe provided the last and
possibly most important tool he would need. The Glock nine had been
a holdover from his department days. It was easy to carry, had a
minimal kickback, and rarely ever missed its target – even if that
target had never been anything more formidable than a paper
bulls-eye.

Now all Paul needed to do was sit back and
wait. Camille had assured him that if anything about the situation
felt uneven, she would contact him. He was also instructed to call
the police if he didn’t hear from her within a specified time
frame. His executive decision to provide artillery assistance came
when Camille refused his offer to take the Glock herself. Paul
understood her reluctance, given her recent history. Fortunately
his draw was still quick, and his hesitation was non-existent.

Of course he tried to convince himself that
it would never come to that. If he thought for a second that such a
scenario were truly possible, he would never have let Camille and
Meredith go without him, despite his daughter’s ability to convince
him that she didn’t need a watchful eye on her every moment of
every day, and the preternatural instincts that told him
otherwise.

His nervous pacing began the moment they
left the house and hadn’t slowed in the hour since. There were
attempts to occupy time with one or another of the DIY projects
that he had undertaken in the two weeks since Camille moved out.
But he couldn’t focus on anything other than her for more than a
few minutes.

You can’t protect her from
everything evil in the world,
Paul
silently reminded himself; the same as he always did when the
thoughts became too overwhelming to manage.
Even if you could, she doesn’t need it.

It was with this mantra repeating itself in
his mind that he heard the first knock on the front door. It was a
single knock. Easy to miss had his senses not been on heightened
alert. His mind instantly went quiet as he heard the second single
knock, this one softer than the first. The third knock caused his
heart to skip. The fourth, a heavy thud that shook the walls of the
foyer, made him reach for the Glock.

A near deafening silence followed as he
slowly walked to the door.

Paul listened before reaching for the
doorknob. He heard nothing but the sound of distant cars and
barking dogs and immediately took in a deep breath of relief. The
sound of shuffling feet on the front porch cut off his air supply
before he could let the breath out.

He held the Glock behind his back as he
opened the door. The only thing he saw was the UPS truck parked in
front of his house. The driver sat behind the wheel, making a
notation in his clip board. When he spotted Paul he gave a quick
wave, then drove off.

The air returned to his lungs in short,
quick bursts as he set the gun down on the foyer table. The eight
by ten inch photo-sized box that the driver left behind rested
against the screen door. Paul looked at it for a moment before
making a move to retrieve it. The plain white shipping label was
addressed to Camille. No return label or additional markings.

The box was light, weighing next to nothing
in his hand. A quick shake gave no clue to the contents inside.

The sigh of relief that began two minutes
ago was finally completed.

“Guess I’d better warn Rich to use the
doorbell next time.”

Paul chuckled as he put the box down next to
the gun, a gun he was now thoroughly convinced he didn’t need.

He left it behind as he walked into the
kitchen to use the phone. It had been over an hour since Camille
left and he figured the time had come for a status update. He would
save the story about his near-fatal run in with the UPS driver for
another conversation.

He was just about to dial the last digit of
her cell phone number when the front door opened.

That was an awfully quick
trip,
Paul thought as he promptly stopped
dialing.
Oh well. Better to get that
status report in person anyway
.

In the two seconds it took for him to hang
up the phone and turn around, the light smile on his face had
morphed into something much, much darker.

CHAPTER SIX

THE CATALYST

The massive Brown Palace
Hotel lobby
was teeming with afternoon
guests. Some of them were checking in and checking out, some of
them were enjoying tea and gourmet scones in the opulent dining
area, some of them were complaining that their towel warmers were
set too high. All of them were very eager, very wealthy, and in
Camille’s mind, very annoying. The only thing she wanted was to get
to a desk clerk to ask for Jacob Deaver’s room number, but after a
full twenty minutes of waiting, there were still six people ahead
of her.

Meredith’s naturally elegant air helped her
fit right in with the elite crowd surrounding them. But as each
dreadfully long minute bled into the next, the cracks in her
graceful armor began to show.

“This is absolutely absurd. We can’t stand
here all day.”

Camille eyed the three desk clerks working
feverishly to process the heavy traffic flow. She knew they were
doing their best and hated the fact that she was about to add
significantly to the stress of their day.

“We’re not standing here a minute longer,”
she declared as she grabbed Meredith by the elbow. “I just hope you
don’t embarrass easily.”

“What are you talking about?”

Meredith’s question was quickly answered as
Camille pushed the two of them to the front of the line.

The glares and hisses were immediate and
forceful.

“Are you out of your mind?” barked the
silver-haired man at the front of the line who was obviously the
master of some corporate universe. “Just what do you think you’re
do—”

Camille’s death stare quickly ended his
protest.

The young female desk clerk was quiet but
clearly flustered as they approached.

“We’re really sorry about the disruption
here,” Camille said with genuine contrition. “But this is something
of an emergency.”

“You’re gonna have an even bigger emergency
if you don’t get back in line,” a random voice yelled out. Camille
pretended not to hear it.

“Ma’am there are other guests ahead of you,”
the clerk said in a firm but professional tone. “I understand the
wait is unusually long today, but we’re doing the best we can
to—”

“I don’t think you understand,” Camille
interrupted. “There may be someone very dangerous staying at your
hotel right now. And it’s imperative that we talk to him.”

Meredith and the hotel clerk gasped
simultaneously.

“What do you mean by dangerous?” the clerk
asked. Camille imagined that Meredith was asking the same
question.

“Jacob Deaver is the name he may have
registered under. Can you look it up please?”

The clerk swallowed hard. “Are you with the
police?”

Meredith eyed Camille
curiously. Camille eyed her back.
I hope
you don’t embarrass easily
.

“Yes,” Camille answered as she leaned into
the desk. “But for the sake of not panicking your guests, we’d
rather not have to produce identification.”

The clerk blew out a deep breath, nodded,
and turned back to her computer. “What was the name?”

“Jacob Deaver.” Camille looked at Meredith
from the corner of her eye. Thankfully, her poker face was holding
up.

“I’m afraid he’s checked out already.”

“Checked out already?”

“That’s right. A little over an hour
ago.”

Meredith looked concerned. Camille couldn’t
blame her.

“Can you tell us which room he was staying
in?”

The clerk checked the computer. “307.”

“What about the credit card he used,”
Meredith asked, hints of panic rising in her voice. “What was the
name on it?”

The clerk hesitated. “I’m sorry ma’am, but
that’s privileged information. Even if you are with the police, I’m
not allowed to—”

Camille cut her off. “That’s okay. We don’t
need it.”

The clerk continued working the computer. “I
am seeing something here though. Apparently he left items behind
with another clerk. If you give me a moment I can go ask about
it.”

Camille nodded as the clerk walked away.

“Checked out?” Meredith’s expression was a
combination of fear and confusion. The worst combination
imaginable.

Camille remained silent as the clerk
returned. She was holding two small envelopes.

“As he was checking out, Mr. Deaver told one
of the clerks that two women may be coming to see him and he was
afraid he would miss them. He said to give them these cards.” She
looked at the names on the front. “Are you guys Jessica Bailey and
Candace MacPherson?”

Camille’s heart plunged into her stomach,
taking all of the color from her face with it.

Meredith appeared to sense her distress
immediately. “Are you okay, Camille?”

“May I have the notes please?” Camille
stammered as she attempted to gather herself.

The clerk handed them over. “Unfortunately
that’s all I can offer.”

“It’s more than enough. Thank you.” Camille
quickly stepped out of the line and made her way to an empty table
in the dining area.

“What just happened back there?” a wide-eyed
Meredith asked.

Camille held up the notes. “Do those names
look familiar to you?”

Meredith squinted as she glanced at the tiny
scribble. “No. Who are they?”

“Daniel Sykes’ last two victims.”

The color seemed to drain from Meredith’s
face just as quickly as it had drained from Camille’s. “I don’t
understand.”

Camille was slowly
beginning to. Her hands were shaking as she opened the note
marked
Jessica Bailey
. She read the brief message silently; fearful that giving
the words audible life would make them impossible to repeat. When
she was finished she pushed the note across the table.

Meredith briefly studied
Camille’s face before taking the note. Her expression revealed
nothing. After a long pause, she read the message out loud.
“
I was failed. My best friend was failed.
Our families were failed. Unfortunately, I’m no longer here to
speak up for myself or for them. But someone can. He will be heard.
They all will be heard. Always watching, Jessica
Bailey.”

“What about the handwriting?” Camille asked
with a forced measure after Meredith finished reading. “Does it
look like Jacob’s?”

“Not at all.” She handed the note back. “And
I’m assuming it wasn’t written by Jessica Bailey.”

Camille shook her head.

“Then it was written by the man you met
today.”

Camille didn’t respond as she opened the
second envelope. The message was exactly the same as the first,
except it was signed Candace MacPherson.

“I suppose we call the police now,” Meredith
said, the gravity of the situation fully evident in her tone.

“I suppose we do,” Camille muttered in a
voice that was barely audible above the soft harp playing in the
dining hall.

They made the walk to the parking garage in
silence, both attempting the make their own sense of the situation.
When they reached the car, Camille pulled out her cell phone.

“I’d better fill my father in before we make
any other moves. I’m sure his nerves are already through the
roof.”

“That might be an understatement,” a male
voice said from behind them.

Camille spun back on her heels as Jacob
Deaver slowly approached. Only now she knew he wasn’t Jacob
Deaver.

“Scared. Petrified. Seeing what’s left of
his life flashing before his eyes. Those might be better
descriptions of your father’s current mental state.”

Meredith backed away from the man. Camille
walked toward him.

“Meredith? Is this Jacob Deaver?” she
asked.

“No it isn’t.”

He lifted his arms and crossed his wrists.
“Guilty. Guess you’ll have to put the cuffs on me now.”

As he drew closer, Camille held her ground,
already plotting the first area of his body she would strike should
it come to that. His thick Adam’s apple was a sensible target.
“What the hell do you know about my father?”

“Plenty.”

“Where is he?”

“It’s not really my job to know the ‘where’.
And frankly I don’t care. All I can tell you is that, barring some
failed last gasp at heroics, he’s still alive.” He paused, as if
briefly losing himself in a thought. “Which is more than I can say
for my sister.”

Camille resisted the obvious question,
opting instead to unnerve him with her silence. A noticeable
quivering of his chin let her know that the tactic had worked.

“And who is my sister you may ask?”

“I didn’t ask.”

His attention turned to Meredith. “Jacob
Deaver asked. He seemed very noble about it all. He said he’d read
all the news reports, watched the tearful interviews. But he knew
none of it did true justice to Candace’s life. Like he knew the
first damn thing about Candace’s life.” He looked at Camille with
dark eyes. “Does it make sense now?”

It made perfect sense. But Camille couldn’t
find the words to communicate that.

He turned back to Meredith. “He bent over
backwards to assure my family that the book wasn’t about glorifying
what Daniel Sykes did. It was merely about understanding him. And
in order to understand him, Jacob said he needed to know as much
about his victims as possible. My parents were as nice to him as
they could be. They’re good people. Really good people. But their
senses were still dulled by shock. They couldn’t see him for the
vulture that he really was, even after he insisted on taking
pictures of Candace’s gravesite. Fortunately I could see him
exactly for what he was.”