by Thomas Fahy
Andrea slipped away, crying, muttering apologies, scrambling for her clothes beside the bed.
For the rest of the night, Andrea stayed on the couch. She was silent the next morning.
Catherine wanted to talk. She wanted to understand what had happened last night. Andrea had touched her like a lover. She never knew Andrea felt that way for her, for other women.
But there was only silence between them, and Catherine could tell that she was afraid.
At that moment, Catherine realized that she needed to run. From her family and friends. Until she knew what drove Max to kill himself, until she knew what was driving her now, she wasn’t safe.
“How are you doing?”
Catherine jumps slightly, startled to hear Father Morgan’s voice. “Oh, fine. I thought you were asleep.”
“Very funny,” he says with a smile, and they both laugh.
“Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” She pauses, tapping the steering wheel repeatedly with her index finger. “Last night, I meant to ask about the guy who put you in touch with Dr. Clay. How do you know him?”
“Oh, Arty,” he says, sitting up straight. “I actually met him in an insomnia chat room.”
“On the Internet?”
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “Most nights, when I can’t sleep, I get online. There are so many people out there. On the Net, I mean. Lost. Just looking for someone to talk to. Anyway, I found this chat room for insomniacs a few months ago. I became a regular, actually. One night, this guy Arty mentioned several sleep clinics in San Francisco and a specialist named Dr. Clay. I did some research and found out that he was not just a specialist, but the specialist. Eventually, Arty and I started e-mailing each other. We’ve become friends, I guess.”
“And he’s the one who told you about the treatment?”
“Yeah, about a month ago. He contacted Dr. Clay, who invited him to participate in a new study. Arty gave me the doctor’s number.”
“And…you think Dr. Clay will help me?” She can hear the desperation in her voice.
Father Morgan nods encouragingly, then says, “I do.”
But Catherine isn’t convinced. She can’t believe that she’s pinning her hopes on a man she just met and some guy from cyberspace. She and Father Morgan don’t speak for the next few miles. Nothing but dry, seemingly empty fields line both sides of the highway, and the air smells of manure. Even the road signs look tired. Faded, unfamiliar names for quiet towns. She doesn’t know exactly where she is going, except that she is heading west. And for the first time, she realizes that she too is lost.
8:53 P.M.
Catherine follows Father Morgan down the steps to Arty’s apartment, but before they can knock, the front door opens quickly. Yellow light fills the entryway.
“Arty?” Father Morgan asks with a smile.
Arty shakes Father Morgan’s hand, then Catherine’s, awkwardly.
“Come in, come in.” He mutters and doesn’t look at either of them directly.
They step inside.
The light comes from a floor lamp in the corner with an old shade. A crucifix hangs on the wood-paneled wall behind the couch, and Catherine wonders if Arty is Catholic, if that too is something that Father Morgan and he share.
Several newspapers cover most of the space on the couch and coffee table. A small microwave dinner has been placed on one stack, still steaming. It is pasta sprinkled with something green, broccoli, perhaps, and Catherine thinks, I’m glad we stopped for dinner.
“Sorry about the mess,” Arty mutters and starts collecting the papers. He looks mostly at the floor when he talks. His tall, lanky body moves clumsily as he shuffles back and forth between the living room and kitchen, removing the dinner and placing the papers in one of several large piles throughout the apartment. He steals glances at Catherine’s body with each pass, and she wonders if she is the first woman to set foot inside his apartment.
When the couch has been cleared, Arty gestures for them to sit. He pulls up a chair. Catherine notices the dark lines around his eyes, his pale white skin, and a chipped tooth.
Father Morgan starts talking. In fact, he carries the conversation for the next couple of hours, telling them about his childhood in Salt Lake City, the small Catholic community there, his church, and his forced leave of absence for participating in a gay rights parade.
It’s getting late, Catherine thinks, and eventually, they have to rest. To turn off the lights and struggle for sleep.
“I’m a bit tired,” she says impatiently.
And Father Morgan adds with a weak smile, “Perhaps we should get to bed.”
This is the moment that they dread every night, but no one suggests an alternative. A game of cards. Watching television. More awkward chatter. None of these distractions will change the fact that they ultimately have to face their inability to sleep.
Arty brings them several pillows and blankets from the hall closet. He covers the couch with sheets, then unrolls a sleeping bag for Father Morgan. He leaves the room without saying a word and closes his door.
Father Morgan turns to Catherine. “Are you all right?”
“Yes.” Catherine watches as he unbuttons his shirt and drops it to the floor. “I’m just…everything is happening really fast, that’s all.”
“Well, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you’re here.” He climbs into the sleeping bag and adjusts his pillow.
“Thanks.” She turns off the light and waits for her eyes to adjust in the darkness. Lying on the couch, she tries to avoid thinking about Max, about the life she had hoped they would have together. When they were in love, she used to play a game with herself, imagining their wedding, where they would live, how they would greet each other after work, what they would name their children. If they had a girl, Catherine would name her Isabella. She has always loved that name. Isabella. Isabella Harris.
Stop. She has to focus on herself now. On the future.
If she is going to do this, to stay away from family and friends until she gets some answers, she will need to start over. In the morning, she’ll look through some of those newspapers for a job and a place to stay. She isn’t comfortable here. She doesn’t trust Arty. In the last hour, he has opened the bedroom door and walked to the bathroom three times. She can tell that he is watching her.
There’s nothing she can do about that right now. She reaches into her bag and takes out a portable CD player.
The Goldberg Variations start playing through her earphones. It’s the last CD Max gave her. She plays it at night to block out the memory of the approaching train. The rattling wood. The blaring whistle. Her own silent scream.
OCTOBER 19, 2000
11:34 P.M.
Her new, unfurnished apartment is in the misty hills below Coit Tower, and she is happy to be away from Arty’s probing eyes and awkward body. Father Morgan hasn’t found a place of his own yet, but he isn’t surprised. She was lucky to find something so quickly, he keeps reminding her.
The nights have gotten worse for Catherine, and she is anxious about meeting Dr. Clay on Monday. He isn’t sure about bringing her into the study, but she hopes to convince him.
Her eyes are tired from reading, and she closes the Bible, putting it next to her copy of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. These are her only books; Father Morgan gave them to her a few days ago as a gift. Right now, she is reading the Book of Job for the second time. Job, the great sufferer. Job, who cannot sleep because God made a wager with the Devil.
She gets up from the mattress on the living room floor and walks to the bathroom. Maybe a bath will relax me, she thinks and starts running warm water. Standing at the sink, waiting for the bathtub to fill, she looks at herself. Her skin appears pale and lifeless in the fluorescent light.
A figure emerges like a phantom through the doorway behind her, just as Max did from the fog. She feels his breath on her shoulder, and it takes her a few moments to recognize Arty’s face in the mirror, his chipped tooth.
She
turns to face him. His body is almost pressed against hers, and she is certain that he can hear her heart pounding erratically.
“What are you doing?” Her words sound weak and fearful.
Arty lifts his hands slowly like someone about to surrender, then grabs the back of her head. Before she can react, he slams the side of her face into the glass. Two large sections fall into the sink, shattering into dozens of smaller fragments. Her face and nose drip blood onto the basin. She can feel him rubbing his lower body against hers.
Everything seems to move more slowly. The light flickers, and her eyelids feel heavy. She grabs a triangular shard.
A sudden jolt. Something passes between them.
Looking down, he sees her bleeding hand pressed against his abdomen. He pushes her angrily, knocking her into the tub. He then removes the jagged glass from his stomach, and it slices into his palm and fingers. He looks at the wound, then at her. There is more blood on him than he expects.
With one long stride, he is above her, clamping his hand forcefully around her neck. He shoves the broken glass into her stomach. She gasps.
Arty steps back, blood dripping from his hand, and he rushes out of the room.
Catherine can’t move. She feels tired, incredibly tired. The cool rushing water covers her body, and the sound reminds her of a train. But this time its steadiness is calming.
She closes her eyes, grateful for the darkness, and sinks slowly into sleep.
Arty feels drowsy as he looks over the nearly empty apartment—the small mattress on the floor, the boxes of Chinese takeout, the books by her pillow. He takes another step, then falls, slamming hard against the wood floor. He closes his eyes to stop the spinning. The room becomes still and black as he listens to the moving water.
When he wakes, he stands in the kitchen, unsure of the time or how much of it has passed. He scrambles through the mostly empty drawers until he finds a set of knives. He walks to the bathroom more steadily now. He must finish what he has started.
THURSDAY
OCTOBER 26, 2000
8:32 P.M.
The newspapers in his room seem to grow like weeds. Arty inhales deeply. The smell of the paper, the feel of black ink rubbing off on his fingertips, he loves everything about newspapers. Most people don’t appreciate them. They read only parts and then throw the rest away. But Arty reads every single word. He saves them too. He saves them to preserve the past.
He has watched for news of Catherine, but nothing has been reported all week.
He wasn’t planning to kill her. To fuck her, yes, but not to kill her. He remembers her body lying in the bathtub, and the anger in him surges. From the moment she walked into his life, she looked at him with revulsion and disgust. She wanted nothing more than to be miles away from him. Now she’ll never have to see him again, he thinks.
No, he wasn’t planning to kill her, but now it feels right. She should thank him, thank him for finally enabling her to sleep.
Arty closes the paper and puts on the earphones he took from her apartment. He presses PLAY on the portable CD player and inhales again, as if the sounds of the Goldberg Variations were air. He opens the book Father Morgan has been reading, Martyrs and Saints.
A large image of Saint Peter fills the page. His body nailed to a wooden cross—feet raised, blood rushing to his head. The muscles in his face are tight with agony and the painful knowledge that death is coming.
He saw that expression on Catherine’s face.
“Hey, Arty.” Father Morgan walks into the room and sees him at a small desk with his back to the door. Most of the floor is covered with newspapers, and there is little light. Arty doesn’t move at the sound of his voice. “I haven’t been able to get ahold of Catherine for a few days now. She hasn’t called, has she?”
“No.” His voice is flat. He doesn’t turn around.
“Is that mine?” Father Morgan asks, somewhat surprised, as he steps closer and points to the book.
“Yes.” Arty turns slightly. “I saw it in the front room. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
“I don’t,” Father Morgan says, looking at the image of Peter. “The father of the church. Did you know that he asked to be crucified upside down?”
“Apparently so.” Arty looks back at the image.
There is a moment of silence between them, then Father Morgan says, “I’m going over to Catherine’s place. I’ll see you later.”
“No,” Arty blurts out.
“Why not?” Father Morgan looks at him, puzzled by the outburst.
Arty is silent again. Lost in the image of Saint Peter, he hasn’t lifted his eyes from the page.
“Arty,” Father Morgan begins again, “what’s wrong?”
Arty stands up and slowly removes one of Catherine’s kitchen knives from the desk drawer. “I’m sorry, Father, but we’re all martyrs.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s time for your suffering to end.”
Father Morgan stumbles back. His shoulder slams against the doorjamb as he pivots and runs into the hall. The yellow light of the living room engulfs him. He turns, and Arty is there. At first, Father Morgan is confused, unaware of what has already happened. He grabs his own throat involuntarily and gasps. Blood pours over his hands, spraying away from his neck.
He falls backward, over the couch and onto the floor. He is staring up at the wall behind him, and Arty follows his gaze. The crucifix. From down there, it must look like Saint Peter, he thinks. Upside down and unworthy.
Arty stands over the body for another moment without moving. I will have to get rid of him fast.
He looks up at the cross and suddenly knows what to do. Like an artist overcome by inspiration.
He starts to hurry now. Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow he starts treatment with Dr. Clay.
Tomorrow he’ll start to sleep again.
32
Aria
SATURDAY
The doorbell rings, followed by two quick knocks.
Samantha hasn’t spoken with Frank since that night a week ago. He called once and left a message saying that there were no new leads. She didn’t call back. She needed time away from the case, from him.
She reads the paper every morning, afraid of the possibilities, but has found no reports of similar killings. Not yet.
“Hi, Sam. It’s been a while.” Frank stands with his hands tucked into his pockets, and he forces a quick smile.
“Yeah.”
He shifts his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He can’t read her face. The straight lines of her eyebrows. Closed lips without a smile. “How are you?”
“All right. And you?”
“Good.” Frank walks into her apartment with a folder tucked under his arm.
“Any news?”
“The police still haven’t found him, but we finally came up with something on that partial print from the bus station bathroom. May I?” Frank motions toward the couch.
“Of course. Sorry.”
He sits. She pulls up her desk chair.
“We think his name is Jack Hansen. He was arrested five years ago for assault, then paroled after serving two years. Surprise, surprise, no current address.” He hands her a mug shot. “Look familiar?”
The small black-and-white photo could be anyone, she thinks uneasily. It could have been me. “Not really.” She returns the picture. “I never saw him closely. I…”
“I know.” Frank notices the stillness of her body. Head bowed slightly to the floor. “The important thing is that it’s over, and you’re safe.”
“It’s not over, Frank. The trail has just stopped. It’ll pick up somewhere else.”
“This guy was a transient, Sam. You said it yourself. He probably killed Arty in self-defense.” Frank stops, uncertain how to read her silence.
“What if it’s not that simple?” she asks.
“Sam,” he says with a steady voice, “Arty had a record.”
For the first time, she l
ooks directly at his face.
“He was arrested for sexual assault in 1997. Apparently he attacked a coworker in the parking lot of her apartment, but the charges were eventually dropped.”
Samantha shifts in her seat and leans back.
“We got the right guy,” he says conclusively.
“We still don’t know exactly how Catherine was involved. And how did the killer find out about Father Morgan?”
“By searching Dr. Clay’s office. That’s what we did. Arty could have done the same thing. And maybe he was setting up Catherine to take the fall, and something went wrong.”
“That explains it?” Exasperated, Samantha crosses her arms.
“What more do you want?” Frank leans forward, one hand pressing down on his left knee. “We caught Arty trying to do the same thing to you that he did to three other victims.” He accentuates the last three words, then inhales audibly. “So all the pieces of the puzzle don’t fit. They never do. Mostly we’re left with unanswered questions, doubts, fears—the things that keep us up at night. And…”
“And?” Samantha pushes.
“The others are dead now. We’ll never know for sure, but at least the killings have stopped.”
“What if they haven’t, Frank? Something is happening here. Max, Catherine, Arty, and now this homeless man.”
“Jack Hansen,” Frank adds.
“All of them lost the ability to sleep. They all experienced a sleeplessness that left them so exhausted, so terribly lonely and frustrated and desperate”—Samantha shudders at the word—“that they became violent.”
“And none of these people had the will to stop themselves?”
“Not if they were acting in a semisleep state. Maybe they only realized what was happening gradually, through their nightmares. Or at least what they thought were nightmares. Horrible night visions that overpowered them, that made them feel like victims. A kind of curse,” she says the last part softly, more to herself than Frank.
“Sam, I don’t believe that we’re all potential victims. I can’t.”