Conduit

By Matt Saari

Miranda has come to realize she is unable to remember any concrete details about her life. She follows an instinctive path to the one place she still can remember, a greasy spoon diner. As she tries to reminisce with the only friend she can remember, something terrible happens.

Kelly is a young married woman struggling with a detached husband and the allure of an affair. Her would-be paramour winds up having much different plans for her.

The two women are inexorably linked by chance, but it's also this chance that catches the attention of a pair of private investigators who may prove invaluable in the struggle Miranda and Kelly didn't know about yesterday, but today they're neck deep in.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Matt Saari
• Release date: Jan 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465941305

Matt Saari

I'm a person who likes to tell stories.

Book preview

Conduit

by Matt Saari

Copyright 2011 Matt Saari

Smashwords Edition

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To Shaina

You promised it would be worth it.

It was.

Table of Contents

MIRANDA

MARTIN

KELLY

VOICE

SIDES

TAKEN

DECLARATION

EVIDENCE

SUBTERFUGE

JOURNEY

SPLIT

TROPHY

HERO

STATION

CROSSOVER

HARMONY

FLIGHT

ESCALATION

FIGHT

BOSTON

CLARITY

TOMAH

QUAGMIRE

JUDGMENT

SANCTUARY

ASYLUM

PROTECTION

DELIVERANCE

NIGHTFALL

DAYBREAK

MIRANDA

Miss Caton, pardon my intrusion, said the security guard. Miranda took a deep breath and looked up. She knew stopping to tie her shoe in the lobby would prove to be a mistake, and tried in vain to hide her disappointment.

Even though I know it might seem out of place for me to comment on your personal affairs, the guard said. But, I really feel like I've been neglecting my duties. I have to ask, are you sure you're being safe?

Miranda smiled an affirmative and finished tying her sneaker. She couldn't remember his name. She tried to glance at his badge, but it caught the light just right and couldn't be read. She shrugged and turned to leave. He kept on, and she froze in her tracks, clenching her fists.

They pay me to protect the residents, he said. What kind of self-respecting guard lets a woman—no offense (and I hope you won't mind my saying a beautiful one)—go jogging alone every night? In what my mother would call the middle of the night? Chicago is a big city. I mean, don't get me wrong, you wouldn't catch me dead anywhere else. Go Bears and all that. I mean… you go out a lot, I know… well, I mean, really… um, are you sure you're safe? The guard’s face turned a deep shade of purple.

Safer for everyone else, she said. She released her fists, turned and flashed him a sly grin indicating that she meant it. She then ended the conversation by darting out into the night.

The guard slapped his little podium and muttered something to himself about not seeming so interested. Of course, like pretty much any other man on the planet with eyes, he really, really, was. If only he could manage a conversation with her. He entered into a debate with himself as to if and why a gorgeous woman who could afford an apartment with a security guard would date the actual security guard.

Miranda listened to his rantings—they were louder and not as muffled by the windows as he seemed to expect. He'd interrupted her stretching, so she had to do it outside. His noise provided a fine soundtrack, but not long into it, he'd gone quiet. He was staring at her through the plate glass, mouth agape. She shook her head. He looked away, trying to play it cool.

Miranda set out across the damp Chicago street. She followed along 'personal jogging route number six.’ She jogged religiously. Alone and at night. She observed this ritual daily, and had done so for as long as she could remember.

How long ago was that, exactly? The question came at her quickly, seemingly out of nowhere. Almost as if asked by someone else in passing. The strange thing? She had no answer.

She wondered what the guard would think of her having eight nearly unique routes for her running. Would he laugh? It’d surely kill that lecherous look in his eye—which would be a plus. If only her compulsiveness weren’t supremely embarrassing to her, she might have gone back to tell him. She laughed at the thought, and as she did, she stepped in a particularly deep puddle.

The water flowed into her right shoe; the cold shock bringing back the odd question. Had someone really asked her about jogging recently? Miranda wasn’t at all sure why or when she had become such an avid jogger. For the next few blocks she stayed focused on trying to remember, but nothing came to her. The harder she tried to remember, the more things slipped away, as though she'd dreamed this whole jogging thing. The guard seemed to confirm it was a real thing that she really did, but maybe she'd dreamed him, too.

She could ask a friend, but that would require having one who knew about the compulsion. She kept in touch with a few friendly acquaintances, but only one person was allowed to be what she would call close, and he was way too strange to care about jogging routes. Friends never really seemed to work out the way she always thought they should—as near as she could remember at least. Was it one of ‘the girls’ who’d asked about the jogging? Unlikely, as none of her female acquaintances (couldn’t really call them friends) cared much about her. They just liked the residual attention Miranda created. It’d been forever since she’d even talked to any of them, come to think of it.

Better off without ‘em, she said to the ‘Don’t Walk’ sign. She crossed without looking either way.

As she turned into her favorite dark alley, she was unable to name even one true friend from her ‘younger years’, even though they were not so long ago. Miranda had only recently celebrated her twenty-ninth birthday. Man. People suck, she told a dumpster and kicked it for good measure.

To an uninformed observer, Miranda was not the sort of woman who in any way projected vulnerability. People who might have laughed at her idiosyncrasies would only dare to do so in secret. Not that Miranda had a quick temper or gave a violent vibe; her physical presence was simply intimidating. Her stunning features and graceful movements were as off-putting as they were desirable. Men and women alike found the prospect of conversation with her more difficult than it could possibly be worth. People usually avoided eye contact, or at a minimum, broke it off post haste. From Miranda’s perspective, the experience was something like the security guard, every day.

Is it me? she asked the hooded figure standing across the street without really noticing it. It gave no reply.

Naturally, there was a segment of the population that saw Miranda’s raven hair, gray eyes and magazine-cover features as the perfect catch. They weren’t intimidated. A concept of consequence for action is required for that to be possible. These men (and the occasional woman) narcissism body armor and all, made quite the sport of pursuing an audience with Miranda. The naked kind, in a hotel, so the wife wouldn’t find out.

Why am I always letting these creeps get me down? Another dumpster was victimized, considerably more brutally this time.

Miranda failed to remember even one relationship with a man ‘her age’ that hadn’t eventually taken that course. She tried to convince herself that it was impossible for every person in the world to only see her as eye candy, but she couldn’t come up with a single example to the contrary. She tried to convince herself that her loneliness was the reason for all the jogging-route silliness. She looked up and smiled at the sign reading 12th Street. Almost there, she said in the direction of a streetlamp.

She arrived at her destination—Alexei’s Diner. The greasy-spoon diner sat in stark contrast to the newly built high-rise office buildings on the corner of 11th and Wabash. The area used to be the sole dominion of Columbia College, but in the past months a sea change had swept through the area and six faceless monoliths had shot up practically overnight. The diner had managed to escape the attentions of progress so far. Best stay that way, Miranda threatened the buildings.

As usual, Miranda’s frustrations melted away in the neon glow of ‘Eat t lexei s.’ She told the sign never to get repaired. She caught her breath from her run almost instantly and walked in. She immediately zeroed in on Philip, the cook/host/server, and her only friend. If anyone ever asked, she would more comfortably call Philip her only family. Why though? The rude little voice in her head was at it again. This time, screaming at her. A momentary pain shot through her head, almost knocking her down.

Tonight, someone did ask her about Philip, albeit indirectly. Just as she walked in, a young man wearing a T-shirt devoted to some rock band only he’d heard of approached her.

Who do I have to screw to get some service around here? he said.

Yourself, Miranda answered, barely glancing in his direction. She tried to employ the quick bypass.

Obviously intoxicated and undeterred, the young man put his hand on Miranda’s shoulder. So, what’s a pretty thing like you doing in here?The only thing missing was a comedy hiccup.

She calmly removed his hand. It’s close to my home. It’s not the sort of place where the aimless young stockbrokers, lawyers and med students that infest my apartment complex would ‘happen’ to go. Here, I can avoid forced conversations about how I really should go out with you one of these days—basically, it’s a place where I don’t get hit on. She tried again to walk around him.

The young man blinked and started to say something he’d probably regret if he were to finish.

Miranda shook her head and raised her finger to his lips. You know what? Hell with it. You look exactly like the sort of person who really wants to hear the inner thoughts and insecurities of a woman.Smiling at him, giving no chance for retreat now, "I actually have no good reason. I really can’t help myself in the least. I tried not coming once, but I couldn’t sleep. I finally dragged my insomniac ass down here at 4:30 in the damn morning. No goddamn idea why. Tonight that very question is eating at me more persistently than ever. In fact, I'm not sure I've ever been here before tonight, as I'm pretty sure I'm suffering from some sort of amnesia.

"See, here’s what I do. Or at least what I think I do. I walk in and sit on the fourth stool from the register. Usually there isn’t more than a handful of up-all-nighters in here. They all recognize me and leave me alone. It’s too late for the swing shift meal breakers, and thankfully too early for the club kids clamoring for munchies. I get the run of the place and the undivided attention of Philip. Who, if memory serves – which at present it seems to be on vacation – is the only man on Earth who doesn't see my body as a prize. That sums it up nicely. So my only question is: did you hear me mention anything about drunk-ass college kids trying to get in my pants?"

The drunk-ass college kid scrunched his nose and shook his head.

Miranda patted him on his defeated shoulder. The funny thing is, I don’t even like the stinking coffee. I literally only want to talk to Philip. I can’t sleep without this ritual, but I only speak to him here. Never had the slightest inkling to visit him at home or go to the zoo with him—just noticed that right now. Talk about a woman in crisis, right? Well, ‘Dack’, thanks for listening. You haven’t been all bad.

Lady, ‘Dack’ said, you might be the weirdest chick I’ve ever met.

Probably, Miranda said. Now get out of here, and be glad I’ve spared your life. Go do something with it.

‘Dack’ ignored her advice and went to run his unimpressive game on a young lady his own age in one of the booths.

Miranda smiled as she made eye contact with Philip. He was busy, but he gave her the international sign for ‘be with you in a moment.’

Philip’s face was an experience. His skin was tanned leather after so much time spent working in an abusive kitchen environment. His cheeks were scarred and always red. Miranda had felt at ease with him from his first word. She clearly remembered how he made her feel, and on this night of failed reminiscence that comforted her.

He was the sort who could somehow manage to make a grease fire seem like a happy event. Philip was supremely content with his life. He never had expressed to Miranda any regard for her looks, just as a ‘treasured partner on their trips around the sun,’ as he would say. He likely said that to others as well. Still, he said it about Miranda, and that was what counted.

Miranda reveled in these clear memories bouncing around in her head. She watched Philip doing his work. The pleasantries were interrupted by a palpable strangeness, a laser-guided migraine following hot on its heels. As she rubbed her forehead, she thought she saw something moving out of the corner of her eye. When she turned to look, the headache almost paralyzed her.

She closed her eyes and saw each night she’d spent at Alexei’s. Her memories sat on top of each other and fit together almost perfectly. Maybe she was only remembering her first visit. Watching the nights play out, she concluded there wasn’t much difference between any of them apart from the date on the calendar. She and Philip bantered; the conversations were exclusive to Philip’s sphere of interest, which encompassed his police officer son, professional sports, his adoring wife, and the intricacies (and illogic) of real estate.

That had been the topic upon their first meeting. Miranda had ducked in on a lark, avoiding a very persistent stockbroker. He was expressing an interesting (to himself alone) theory about women who jogged and how attractive they always found him. That fool had wandered far beyond the limits of creepy.

Philip had launched straight away into a diatribe outlining how bizarre he found the business of buying and selling property. He kept pace when Miranda sat down and ordered something. His excitement level teetered around 'heart attack' as he tried to explain what a ‘point’ was, and she couldn’t remember what she’d ordered by the time he served her a cup of coffee. Like magic, Miranda felt at ease. That had been almost three years ago, she was sure of it. At last, something to hold on to. She couldn’t remember any moment happier than that, and she felt no need to try. She'd get it all back in the morning.

Her eyes opened and the headache passed. She marveled at the clarity of that memory. It stood in stark contrast to tonight. Her uneasiness had arrived ahead of her and already filled the diner. She couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was saying, but the little voice in the back of her head was shouting.

She rubbed her eyes one more time. The peculiar scene in the diner hit her in the nose. Actually, it was a paper airplane made of placemat thrown by a bored young boy. Miranda looked around and tilted her head.

The diner was packed, its faux-leather booths full of people. Every seat was taken, even the fourth stool in. A particularly distasteful individual sat in her spot. Miranda looked around, amazemed. After a few passes, she noticed that every person was eating pie and drinking milk apart from the person in her seat. He’d chosen a brown paper bag to go with his pie. And of course there was Dack, who was striking out again. If he didn’t watch it, he'd soon have his band T-shirt redecorated with pie. She almost noticed the dark hood, but somehow she still looked away.

Miranda strained to accept what she was seeing. Thinking that perhaps she was in some sort of medical distress, the FAST test she’d read about popped into her head. She started blinking rapidly. Delusions? Had she fallen and hit her head? Luckily, Philip had time for his favorite customer at last.

You there! Philip addressed the dirty man with the bag, staring at him, unblinking. Philip’s usually kind face displayed the opposite of an interest in trifling.

The dirty man considered Philip’s very large hands and his not quite (but just about) overweight frame. He decided it wasn’t advisable to take a confrontational stance so a grunt was all he mustered. He didn’t move though.

You will need to remove yourself from that seat. It is reserved. I’ve told you already twice. Now kindly move along.

Mother— the dirty man started, but then he thought better of it. This wasn’t a battle worth losing. His rebellion was casting exact change, in coins, across the floor, and he stumbled out into the night.

Some night we’re having, Philip said. I’m hard pressed to complain though. Glad to see it’s not so weird as to break up my best routine.

Miranda just nodded and sat down. She was sweatier than usual, and she shook her arms a couple of times. Must be the heat of all the extra bodies in here, she said to herself.

Must be what?

Philip, why are all these people here? Is there a concert or something?

I don’t know, Philip replied. But frankly, I don’t care. Alexei’s been on my back for months about not being open twenty-four hours anymore. But one night like this, and we’ll be able to stay open overnights for years!

Miranda smiled. I’ve always liked that I never have the urge to correct you. If you were anyone else, I’d probably have straightened you out without— but she wasn’t talking to anyone.

Philip had drifted off, and he was looking over her shoulder, enjoying some scene. She didn’t need to turn around, Philip’s boisterous laughter mixed with the sound of a plate crashing told her all she needed to know; Dack was indeed now wearing that pie.

Miranda chuckled a little. Perhaps your yellow page ad idea finally paid off.

Well, whatever it is, it’s a blessing. Say, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.

She smiled. This sort of statement was always followed by a question about a retired baseball player, or whether she had any idea why the good-for-nothing cash register always jammed (essentially, never anything to do with her). She waited for it, anticipating with mock bated breath.

Why do you always order a coffee? Aren’t you jogging? Isn’t that not very good for you when you’re jogging? Three months and you jog drinking coffee.

Miranda laughed. What should I order if not coffee?

Philip frowned.

She quickly said, I’m not laughing at you. That’s a very astute observation. It’s just a habit. My subconscious has apparently needed a reason to return to the diner night after night. So coffee it always is.

Well, Philip said. Do you experience any health-related issues around the dehydrating qualities of coffee?

Miranda stifled more laughter. Oddly, I never have. She threw him a look of pantomime suspicion. What are you selling, mister?

He reached under the counter and pulled out a bottled sports drink, sliding it across the counter. I’ve been worrying over that. I was on line the other day and saw that runners need electrolytes. That’s why I’ve started stocking these.

Miranda opened the top and took a large gulp. My body thanks you. She drank it slowly, thanking Philip after each sip for being so thoughtful.

As she savored the electrolytes, a notion crept into her mind. The other people in the diner weren’t actually talking. She tried to focus on just one person’s voice, but she wasn’t able to determine any clear line of discussion. She could hear the sound of many people talking, but as she pressed in to listen to just one, there was nothing to be found.

She thought she could just make out a whisper. It was her own voice. Was there a guy wearing a hood? Did he follow me here? Why can’t I remember? Quit keeping me trapped in here, damn you, wake up! The sudden shout startled her. She bit down on her upper lip and made a displeased face.

Oh, Philip said. You don’t like the drink. Bad flavor?

She heard Philip as clear as a bell. When he spoke, the diner sounded full of other people talking, laughing, and having a wonderful time. She frowned and said, No, it’s not the drink. Listen.

Philip made an exaggerated listening gesture, followed by an exaggerated can’t-hear-anything gesture. Miranda turned around to try to get a fix on it. She held up one finger. Another movement caught her eye. Wait. Was that someone wearing a black cloak?

I don’t see anything, Philip said. Are you sure you’re feeling OK? Have I poisoned you with the damned sports drink?

Miranda shook her head; she was sure she’d seen something. The figure was wearing a long black cloak, much like a Halloween costume. This was the Windy City, and it took all sorts, so a black cloak didn’t stick out as much as you might think. Maybe she had seen it before. She began to think that perhaps she’d seen a lot of this black hood over the past day or so, but she dismissed the notion. I must not be getting enough sleep.

I would think your midnight running may play into that, Philip said.

Yeah. You’re probably right. But you know, there’s one thing: it’s well after midnight. Why are there children in here eating pie?

Philip frowned. That was really odd, and he didn’t really know how to explain it.

The black hood was indeed there. It had followed Miranda in and now stood motionless behind two children in a booth as they enjoyed their blueberry pie. Not one of the unexpected patrons, nor Philip, had the slightest inkling it was there. Its head honed in on Miranda, not wavering. Miranda thought she saw it again, and she looked at the two boys, who just made silly faces back at her.

Wait, Philip, did you say I'd been coming here for three months? Don't you mean years?

The hood ticked as though it had heard something. Miranda saw it for certain then and looked up from the boys. In between the moment she laid eyes directly on the hood for the first time and the one where she processed what she was seeing, it moved. Its arm reached out and put a dark hand on her shoulder. Miranda stiffened and it spun her around. Facing Philip again, she tried to turn back.

Do not turn around, the cloaked figure said. You must continue to look forward. You must not indicate in any way that you can see us.

The voice was beautiful but also terrifying. It was the sound of many voices all contributing to one. Not layered or in unison, but as though they each spoke a piece of a syllable. It was, however, wholly convincing. Miranda looked at Philip, who was struck dumb. Terror twisted his face as his eyes panicked.

Philip, what is it? What does it look like? Miranda said.

He cannot speak to you, the figure said. His life will end soon. Attempt to comfort him.

What are you doing to him?

We mean no harm. His enemy is our enemy. Speak to your friend, Miranda Caton.

Miranda’s desire to help Philip outweighed her fear. Philip, look at me!

The task of looking into Miranda’s eyes was arduous, but Philip managed. As their eyes met, all panic suddenly left his face. His mouth didn’t move, but he spoke anyway. Hey, kid, did I ever tell you about my son?

Miranda replied without moving her lips as well. Of course. What’s that got to do-?

Well, this ain’t exactly that clear for me right now. Anyway, anyway. You know Alex, my son, the police officer. We’re so proud, Anya and me. He tries so hard to be a good man, but he’s lost right now. He discovered that he’s stuck with terrible parents who lied to their son for his whole life.

What? Lie? What are you talking about?

He isn’t an only child, Philip said. He has a twin sister your age. Well… I mean… she would be the same age as you two. Did you know you have the same birthday as our son?

You’ve mentioned it.

When they were born, Philip said, "we knew we couldn’t raise two children. You can’t imagine the pain this caused Anya, to choose between her babies. We decided it would be best to let him think he was the only child and never know about her. But he found out. He works for the police, and he’s not a stupid boy. He feels so betrayed. We did this to him. It’s a lot to handle, to be the one who was chosen. He’s so angry; I feel it in his stare every night when he comes here. I thought that if I found you—her, he’d forgive