The Coma

The hospital air smelled of disinfectant and burnt coffee, a scent that was both comforting and nauseating. It was the smell of bureaucracy, of waiting, of bad news delivered in soft voices.

I sat on the edge of the examination table, my legs dangling. A nurse had given me a pair of scrubs to wear. They were blue, oversized, and smelled like industrial laundry detergent. My own clothes—the ruined black dress, the muddy shoes—were in a plastic bag labeled *Evidence*.

My throat felt like I had swallowed a handful of glass. Every breath was a rasp.

"You're lucky," the ER doctor had said, shining a light in my eyes. "Mild smoke inhalation. Some bruising. But your lungs are clear."

Lucky.

I looked at the plastic bag. My burner phone was in there. And the key. And Julian’s phone.

I needed them.

The door opened.

A man walked in. He wasn't in uniform. He was wearing a grey suit that looked like it had been slept in. He had tired eyes and a five o'clock shadow that was pushing 8 PM.

"Mrs. Vance?" he asked.

"Ms. Aris," I corrected. "I'm using my maiden name."

He nodded, unperturbed. "Detective Miller. No relation to the officer."

He pulled a chair up and sat down. He didn't take out a notebook. He just looked at me.

"You've had a hell of a night," he said.

"You could say that."

"We found your husband's car at the airport," he said. "Or rather, a car registered to a shell company we've linked to him. He bought a ticket to Mexico under an alias."

"Arthur Vane," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "You knew?"

"I guessed. A. V. It was on a receipt I found."

"Smart." He leaned forward. "We have an APB out. Airports, train stations, border crossings. If he's still in the country, we'll find him."

"You won't," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because he's not Arthur Vane anymore," I said. "That was the backup plan. The decoy."

"And what's the real plan?"

"I don't know," I admitted. "But it involves a lot of money and a very good story."

I looked at the plastic bag of evidence.

"Can I have my things?" I asked. "My phone? I need to call my sister."

"It's evidence, Ms. Aris. We need to process it."

"The burner phone," I said. "And the other phone. The one I found."

"The one you found on the body?"

"Yes."

He sighed. "We're downloading the data now. But it's encrypted. Heavy encryption. Military grade."

"I know the passcode," I said.

He froze.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"What is it?"

"I'll tell you," I said. "If you let me see the files. Now."

He looked at me. Assessing.

"I can't do that. Chain of custody."

"Then good luck with the encryption," I said. "It's a brute-force nightmare. By the time you crack it, he'll be in Rio."

He stared at me for a long moment. Then he stood up.

"Wait here."

He left the room.

Five minutes later, he came back with a laptop. A tough-book. Police issue.

He set it on the table.

"This is highly irregular," he muttered. "If anyone asks, you're identifying potential accomplices."

He opened a program. It showed the contents of a phone.

"Which phone is this?" I asked.

"The one found on the victim in the driveway. The delivery driver."

Julian's phone. Or the one he planted.

"Enter the code," Miller said.

I typed it in.

*0803.*

The time of my death.

The screen unlocked.

Miller let out a low whistle. "Okay. You're in."

I grabbed the mouse.

I didn't go to the photos. I didn't go to the texts.

I went to the metadata.

The system logs.

"What are you looking for?" Miller asked.

"The upload," I said. "The file he sent right before the explosion."

I found it.

*Upload: The_Phoenix_Final_Draft.pdf*

*Time: 8:02 PM.*

*Status: Complete.*

*Server IP: 192.168.1.1*

"That's a local IP," Miller said. "It means he uploaded it to a device on the same network."

"The house network is gone," I said. "The router was in the basement."

"Then where did it go?"

I looked at the IP address again.

It wasn't the house network.

I recognized it.

It was the default gateway for a specific type of device.

A drone.

"He uploaded it to the drone," I whispered.

"What drone?"

"The one I saw," I said. "Over the river. And at the warehouse."

I clicked on the file properties.

*File Size: 2 GB.*

"That's a big PDF," Miller noted.

"It's not just a PDF," I said. "It's a package. Video. Audio. Blueprints."

I looked at the recipient.

*[email protected]*

I clicked on the address. It opened the contact card.

*Name: The Architect.*

*Number: 555-0199.*

I looked at Miller.

"Run that number."

He pulled out his own phone. He dialed dispatch.

"Run a trace. 555-0199."

He waited.

"Okay. Got it."

He hung up. He looked at me. His face was grim.

"It's a VOIP number," he said. "Voice Over IP. Untraceable."

"No," I said. "It's not untraceable. Nothing is untraceable."

I looked at the laptop again.

I went to the *Deleted Items* folder.

It was empty.

Julian was thorough.

But he was also arrogant.

I went to the *Drafts* folder in his email.

There was one draft.

*Subject: In case of fire.*

I opened it.

It was blank.

But there was an attachment.

A photo.

A photo of a key.

A silver key with a yellow tag.

*Unit 404.*

"That's the key I found," I said. "The one to the clinic."

"We checked the clinic," Miller said. "We executed a warrant an hour ago. Dr. Aris is missing. His office was wiped clean."

"What about the basement?" I asked. "Room 404?"

"There is no Room 404," Miller said. "The basement is just storage. Janitorial supplies."

"He hid it," I said. "Like he hid the room in the carriage house."

I looked at the photo again.

The metadata.

*Location: 47.6062° N, 122.3321° W.*

I typed the coordinates into the browser map.

It wasn't the clinic.

It was an address in the industrial district.

*The Old Cannery.*

The warehouse where he killed Aris.

But wait.

The timestamp on the photo.

*Yesterday. 3:00 PM.*

He took a picture of the key... at the warehouse... *before* he gave it to me?

No.

He didn't give it to me. I found it.

He dropped it.

Intentionally?

"He wanted me to find it," I whispered.

"Why?"

"Because it's not a key to a room," I said. "It's a key to a locker."

I zoomed in on the photo.

The tag.

*Unit 404.*

But underneath, in tiny letters...

*Union Station.*

It was a locker key for the train station.

"He's not flying," I said. "He's taking the train."

Miller stood up.

"Let's go."

We ran out of the hospital room.

"My sister," I said. "Is she safe?"

"We have a unit at her apartment," Miller said. "She's fine."

We got in the car. Unmarked sedan.

He slapped the siren on the roof.

We sped toward Union Station.

"What time is the next train?" I asked.

Miller checked his computer.

" The Amtrak to Vancouver. Departs at 10:00 PM."

I looked at the dashboard clock.

*9:45 PM.*

Fifteen minutes.

We wove through traffic. The rain was falling harder now, blurring the lights of the city.

We screeched to a halt in front of the station.

We ran inside.

The station was cavernous. Echoing. People milling about with luggage.

"Lockers," Miller said. "Where are the lockers?"

"Over there," I pointed. "Near the baggage claim."

We ran to the wall of lockers.

*401... 402... 403...*

*404.*

It was closed.

I didn't have the key. The police had it in the evidence bag.

"Break it," I said.

Miller looked at me. "I need a warrant."

"We don't have time for a warrant!"

He looked at the clock.

*9:52 PM.*

He pulled out his baton.

He smashed the lock.

It didn't break.

"Stand back," he said.

He drew his gun.

He fired.

*BLAM.*

People screamed. Scattered.

The lock shattered.

Miller kicked the door open.

Inside...

A bag.

A black duffel bag.

And a laptop.

"That's it," I said. "The master copy."

Miller grabbed the bag. He unzipped it.

Clothes. Cash. Passports.

And...

A mask.

A silicone mask.

Realistic.

It was the face of an old man.

"He's in disguise," Miller said.

He grabbed his radio.

"Suspect is in the station. Wearing a disguise. Possibly elderly male. Seal the exits."

I looked at the laptop.

It was open. Sleeping.

I woke it up.

No password.

A message on the screen.

*Hello, Elara.*

*You found the breadcrumbs.*

*But you're looking at the wrong screen.*

I looked up.

At the big departure board.

*Amtrak 510 to Vancouver - DEPARTED.*

*9:50 PM.*

It left early.

"He's gone," I whispered.

Miller swore. "We can stop the train. I'll call dispatch."

"No," I said.

I looked at the message again.

*You're looking at the wrong screen.*

I looked around the station.

Digital billboards. Advertising.

One of them changed.

It wasn't an ad for perfume anymore.

It was a video feed.

Live.

From inside a train car.

Julian.

He was sitting in a window seat. He wasn't wearing the mask. He looked like himself. Bruised. Battered. But himself.

He waved at the camera.

Then he held up a sign.

*The End.*

And then... he jumped.

Out the window.

Of a moving train.

Over a bridge.

Into the river below.

The video cut to black.

"He jumped," Miller said, staring at the screen. "He killed himself."

I looked at the blank screen.

"No," I said. "He didn't."

"We saw it."

"We saw what he wanted us to see," I said.

I walked to the laptop.

I checked the metadata of the video file.

*Recorded: Yesterday.*

It wasn't live.

It was pre-recorded.

He wasn't on the train.

He never was.

"He's not on the train," I said.

"Then where is he?" Miller asked, bewildered.

I looked at the locker. At the bag. At the mask.

It was all a distraction. A decoy to get us to the station. To get the police to the station.

To clear the way.

For what?

I closed my eyes. I tried to think like him. Like the author.

If you fake your death... and then fake your escape... and then fake your death *again*...

Where do you go?

You go back to the beginning.

To the prologue.

"The house," I whispered.

"Your house?" Miller asked. "It's gone. It's a hole in the ground."

"Not my house," I said.

"His house."

"He doesn't have another house."

"Yes, he does," I said. "The first one he restored. The one he kept."

Miller frowned. "I didn't see that in the file."

"Because it's not in his name," I said. "It's in *hers*."

"Whose?"

"His mother's," I said. "The one who died in the asylum."

I grabbed the laptop.

"I need to find the address."

I typed in the name. *Vance.* *Property records.* *Historical.*

There it was.

*The Vance Estate.*

*12 Blackwood Lane.*

It wasn't in Verdant Hills.

It was in the old district. The part of town that hadn't been gentrified yet.

The part of town that was still rotting.

"Let's go," I said.

We ran back to the car.

We drove.

To the beginning.

To