Night Visions

by Thomas Fahy

  “Frank?”

  “I always knew you’d end up behind bars.” He smiles.

  “Snair put me in here.” She stands. “He found out that I don’t work for the Palici Corporation.”

  “I know.”

  “You have to get to the clinic. Arty is in danger—Dr. Clay was killed, like the others. I went to his house—”

  “I know.” Frank nods.

  Samantha stands quietly now, both hands gripping the bars. She turns her head to the side. “Snair thinks I did it, but he only asked me a few questions last night.”

  Another set of footsteps gets closer.

  “The guard is coming to let you out,” Frank says. “The charges have been dropped.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re innocent, aren’t you?”

  “Funny.” She forces a smile.

  “I think Snair was just looking for an excuse to arrest you.”

  “Bastard,” she mutters.

  “I’m not sure I blame him.”

  The guard steps between them and opens the gate. Frank thanks him, and Samantha heads down the hall without waiting.

  Frank hurries to fall in step beside her. “You shouldn’t have gone to Dr. Clay’s by yourself. It was dangerous. The killer could have been there.”

  “I didn’t know he was murdered.”

  “You thought it was a possibility, Sam. You should have waited.”

  Samantha doesn’t respond. Their footsteps echo loudly in the corridor. She looks straight ahead.

  “So how did you find him, anyway?”

  “The phone book.”

  “He’s not listed.”

  She glances at him without breaking her stride. “Did I mention I lost a shoe?”

  The blue sky smiles overhead with no memory of yesterday’s storm. Samantha lingers a moment in the crisp clean air before getting into the car.

  “We need to go to the clinic.”

  “The police checked—no Arty or Dr. Cooper. But they’re keeping an eye on the clinic and both of their apartments throughout the day. If they show up, I’ll get a call.”

  “No Dr. Cooper?”

  “Well, let’s not jump—”

  “What about Meredith?” The question pops out of her mouth as if the wind were just knocked out of her.

  “Who?”

  “Nurse Bogart. She works at the clinic.”

  “She must have been the nurse that Snair spoke with last night. What about her?”

  “She’s being protected, right? Snair took her into custody?”

  “I doubt it. He was looking for Arty.”

  “If Dr. Cooper is missing, the killer is after everyone involved with the study, not just the participants and Dr. Clay. We’ve got to find her, Frank!”

  He opens his cell phone and makes a call. “Detective Snair, please. It’s urgent.”

  Samantha takes a quick shower and changes while Frank waits in the living room. He doesn’t hear her enter, and she watches silently for a moment. Standing by her desk, he holds Phebe’s porcelain frog in his left palm. His body seems too big for the room, like a piece of furniture that doesn’t quite fit, and she wonders if something more than the last six months makes him look so out of place.

  “Thanks for coming to get me this morning.” She is drying her hair with a white towel.

  Frank turns, surprised to find her looking at him. “No problem.” He puts the frog back on the desk carefully. “I checked up on Maxwell Harris, Catherine’s boyfriend.”

  “And?”

  “His body was too damaged by the train to provide any useful evidence, but the Durham Police don’t think he killed himself.”

  “What changed?”

  “An eyewitness account. A homeless man living under the bridge saw it. A few days later, the cops brought him in for public drunkenness, and he started talking about a guy being pushed off the bridge.”

  “Did he see him? The killer, I mean?”

  “Not clearly, but”—Frank pauses—“he thinks he was a she.”

  “Catherine?” Samantha whispers.

  “Well, she didn’t have an alibi, but without any evidence, the police couldn’t even suggest it, not the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in North Carolina. Even if this guy were sober enough to identify her, it would never stand up in court.”

  Frank’s cell phone rings, and he pulls it out of his jacket.

  “Yeah.” He leans over to the desk and starts writing. “Thanks.” He turns to her. “I’ve got Meredith’s address. A patrol car is on the way there now. You ready?”

  “Almost.” Samantha puts down the towel and grabs the jacket draped over the back of the kitchen chair. “So I guess Catherine’s parents hired you to find her killer this time.”

  “Yes. And on my behalf, the corporation asked the San Francisco Police Department to give you access to any other crime scenes. If it weren’t for them, you’d still be in jail while Detective Snair took his time processing the paperwork.”

  “You don’t need to get defensive, Frank. I wasn’t implying anything.”

  “Yes you were.” He looks at her briefly, then holds open the front door. “Come on, let’s go.”

  23

  Tiresias

  In front of Meredith’s apartment, someone sifts through a shopping cart filled with plastic bags and aluminum cans. Samantha notices the shoulder-length black hair, leathery skin, and hands cracked and blistered from years in the sun. As she gets out of the car, the figure smiles at her, then goes back to work. He has oddly feminine features. A small nose, tight lips. His left eye is cloudy and unnervingly still. Hanging from his neck, he wears a silver pendant of two snakes joined together. She smells smoke and urine on his clothes.

  Frank hurries up the front steps.

  She starts to follow when a voice seems to whisper suddenly in her ear.

  “She’s not in danger.”

  She turns, but the man is already pushing his cart in the other direction. The wheels grind and squeak, as if reluctant to move.

  “Meredith?” Frank calls out, ringing the bell a second time. He knocks impatiently, then tries the door. It slides open.

  Samantha is afraid of what the unlocked door might mean.

  The living room is sparsely furnished with a black leather couch, two matching chairs, and a television. A bouquet of sunflowers fills an indigo vase on the coffee table, and a framed print of a woman standing alone in the wings of a theater hangs on the far wall. Samantha steps closer. Edward Hopper’s New York Movie. The hardwood floors shine from a pungent cleaner that still lingers in the warm air. An ironing board blocks the entryway to the kitchen.

  Frank calls out again, but no one answers.

  An oversized table and an exercise bike make the living room feel crammed. The Chronicle is open to the section with movie listings, and an unfinished cup of coffee has been placed carefully in the center of a coaster. The mug is still warm. On the other side of the room, a narrow staircase leads to the lower level, and Samantha walks downstairs without waiting for Frank. The space gets darker with each step. At the bottom of the steps, a bookshelf crowds the wall to her right. At the end of the hall, there are two closed doors across from each other, and having to choose between them makes her feel like a game-show contestant. She opens the one to her left, calling out Meredith’s name. Her voice cracks.

  The small bedroom smells like potpourri and vanilla-scented candles. A sliding glass door leads only onto a sunless porch, yet it still manages to brighten the room. A few clothes are scattered on the floor by the closet, and the bed is made. Samantha sees Meredith’s smile and scarred lip in various pictures on the nightstand and dresser. She stands on a long sandy beach with friends, beneath the Eiffel Tower, and at the Hard Rock Café in London. One man appears frequently, and in a separate frame engraved with I love you, Pete, she kisses his cheek. They look happy.

  In the corner, several papers clutter the writing table, and Samantha walks over to it. The lo
ose sheet on top is handwritten.

  Dearest,

  We’ve been apart for so long that I’ve gotten used to the pain of missing you, although it makes my throat dry and my body numb.

  All my life, I thought love would fill me like water fills an empty glass, but loving you has only left me thirsty. It’s not you. It’s loving you now, loving you from so far away, that dries me up. Love isn’t about finding the right person. It’s about finding the right moment. And I’m afraid that I’ll miss this if we stay with each other. I need to keep searching for a love that will fill me. We both do.

  I’m going to miss knowing that you’re there, even when you’re thousands of miles away. But this is the best way. We have moments to be waiting for.

  I still love you.

  M.

  “What the hell are you doing!” Meredith stands at the door with Frank by her side.

  “Uh, looking for you. We were—I was—”

  “Reading my letter.” She steps toward Samantha, taking the sheet from her hand.

  “I’m sorry…. It’s beautiful.” Samantha stands still, arms at her sides.

  “It’s private,” Meredith says softly.

  “Meredith,” Frank interrupts, “as I was saying upstairs, we think you might be in danger.”

  She faces him and stands quietly.

  “Almost everyone connected with Dr. Clay’s study has either disappeared or been killed in the last week,” Frank continues. “We want to put you into protective custody. A patrol car will be here any minute.”

  “You’re a cop?” She turns to Samantha, obviously shocked at what she thinks is another betrayal.

  “No, I’m…I’m kind of like a consultant.”

  “A consultant? Were you lying to Dr. Clay about your sleep disorders? Did you know we were in danger?”

  “No! I haven’t been able to sleep for months—” Samantha looks at Frank, pleadingly at first, then back to Meredith. She pauses.

  “Sam?” Frank asks.

  “Neither could Dr. Clay, could he?”

  “What?” Meredith looks confused.

  “Did Dr. Clay have sleeping problems?”

  “Yeah, I think so. Every once in a while he complained about not getting enough sleep.”

  “What about you?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then why do you work at a sleep clinic?”

  “It’s an internship for one of my electives. I’m getting my master’s in nursing at UCSF. Why—”

  “What do you know about Dr. Cooper? What kind of doctor is she?”

  “Actually, she’s a psychiatrist. What does—”

  “Why would a psychiatrist be asked to fill in for Dr. Clay?” Samantha interrupts.

  “Well, they’re friends.”

  “That doesn’t make her qualified to conduct the study.”

  “You don’t need to specialize in sleep disorders to administer the treatment. Anyone could do it.”

  Someone knocks loudly on the door upstairs. “Hello? Ms. Bogart? San Francisco Police Department.”

  “We’re down here. Hold on!” Frank yells, then hurries upstairs.

  “I’ve got to go too. The police are going to keep an eye on you for a few days.” Samantha moves closer to Meredith, who looks down at the letter in her hand.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Samantha continues, trying to sound reassuring, but she can’t tell if the words are for Meredith or herself.

  “You shouldn’t have read my letter.” Meredith’s voice is quiet, and something about it recalls the way Father used to express his disappointment in her, calmly, succinctly.

  “I’m sorry,” Samantha says.

  “Me too.”

  Samantha watches Meredith turn and walk up the stairs.

  Outside, Frank leans against the car with his arms crossed in front of his chest. He watches the police car as it pulls away with Meredith in the backseat.

  Samantha waves, but Meredith doesn’t turn around to see. “At least she let me help her pack.” The words sound as if Samantha were asking a question.

  “She’ll be all right,” he says.

  Samantha turns, nodding and lowering her eyes.

  “So why all the questions about Dr. Cooper?”

  She raises her face eagerly to his. “I don’t think the killings are about this study or Dr. Clay. They’re about people with severe sleep disorders.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Other clinics may be targeted.” She stands, clasping her hands in front of her nervously.

  “You mean now that you and Meredith are being protected.”

  “I don’t think Meredith is in any danger. She’s not an insomniac. She doesn’t suffer like the killer does, so she can’t be martyred for it.”

  “Martyred?”

  “After the count lost his ability to sleep, he tried to take sleep away from those around him. He wanted others to suffer in the same way. He kept his servants up till all hours. He—”

  “None of that explains why the killer started with Dr. Clay’s study,” Frank says abruptly. He doesn’t want to hear any more about Goldberg or the count’s curse. “There has to be a reason.”

  “‘She’s not in danger.’” Samantha mutters, then looks up the street. The homeless man is bent over a garbage can at the end of the block. “How did he know?”

  “What?”

  “Hold on.”

  She jogs toward the homeless man, watching him as he finishes searching through the garbage can and starts pushing his cart around the corner. When Samantha reaches the side street, she half expects to see no one, but he is standing there, perfectly still, as if he has been waiting for her.

  “Hi.” She stops. “Uh…did you say something to me back there?” Now that she stands in front of him, waiting, she feels foolish.

  Silence.

  “I think you said, ‘She’s not in danger.’” Samantha continues. “What did you mean by that?”

  His cloudy eye focuses directly on her, and the snakes around his neck glisten in the sunlight.

  “Does the name Goldberg mean anything to you?”

  He grabs her hands suddenly, almost violently. She wants to pull away, but his grip is too strong. He wrenches her palms upward, looking at them intently.

  “You’ve been marked.”

  “What!” She yelps, twisting her arms and shoulders. She tries to inhale but feels a heaviness on her chest, as if something is wrapped around her, squeezing.

  He stares at her stomach, and she looks down. The bottom two buttons of her shirt have come undone, exposing part of her scar.

  “It’s destined to find you.”

  “No,” she whispers. She pulls back hard, unsure about what is more terrifying—his words or his icy grip.

  Samantha hears footsteps behind her, then Frank’s voice.

  “Sam?”

  She finally yanks her hands free, but the man continues to look down, as if they were still there. She is breathing heavily now.

  “I don’t understand,” she says.

  “Buses go everywhere.” With those words, his eyes become sorrowful, not penetrating. The man turns around and starts pushing his cart again. The wheels grind and squeak. Cans and bottles rattle against each other.

  24

  Love Letters

  What are you thinking?” Frank looks straight ahead as he talks, fidgeting slightly.

  “This music on the radio. I heard a story about it once in a music history class. It’s kind of a sad love letter.”

  Mozart’s Mass in C Minor was a piece written not for God but for two women, her instructor said. At twenty-one, Mozart fell in love with Aloysia Weber, a soprano with an angelic voice and shapely legs. Though his passion for her was bigger than the Munich Opera House, his purse was small. She ended their courtship, saying that he needed to make his mark, to become a success. Only then would she marry him. In the meantime, she promised to wait. “I’ll always love you, Wolfgang,” she told him
. But a short time later, she announced her engagement to an actor. With a battered heart, Mozart turned to Constanze, Aloysia’s younger sister. In her arms, he found solace and eventually love—not the kind that ignites fires and starts wars, but the kind that offers shelter from a storm. He wrote the Mass for their wedding day, and Constanze sang soprano. Filling the church with her voice, she must have suspected that the lilting, mournful melodies were more a testament to what her husband had lost in Aloysia than to her or Christ.

  Aloysia could have sung it better.

  Mozart could have loved Constanze better.

  “Like Meredith’s?” Frank looks straight ahead as he speaks.

  “What?”

  “Her letter.”

  Samantha lowers her eyes guiltily. “She said that love isn’t about the right person, it’s about the right moment. Do you think that’s true?”

  “It depends on the night,” he says glibly, then laughs.

  The sound of it makes Samantha smile. She watches him, waiting for an answer as he looks in the rearview mirror and changes lanes.

  “For me”—his voice is cheerful but cautious—“love is cleaning the apartment…brushing your teeth, dressing nicely, that kind of stuff.”

  “Personal hygiene?”

  “It’s about being a better person. Or at least trying to be.” He pauses. “The tricky part is finding someone who makes you want to keep trying.”

  “Did I make you feel that way?” Samantha is surprised by her own question.

  Frank hesitates before answering. “Yes, you did.” The truthfulness of the words makes them hard to say, and he wonders how she feels about hearing them.

  Samantha wants to tell him that he did the same for her and that she doesn’t deserve such a beautiful compliment. She has let him—let both of them—down. But as always, when it comes to her heart, she struggles with words.

  They turn onto the street with the clinic, and Samantha is relieved. The building glows orange-red in the light of the setting sun, and a police car is parked at the curb in front of the entryway. Frank pulls into a space across the street, and they both get out of the car quietly. He follows her across the street.