by Thomas Fahy
“Because you don’t know what it’s like to be desperate.”
Frank looks at her eyes, which seem far away. “Desperate?”
“Yes, desperate to the point where you’ll do anything to regain control, to fight the fear that you’ll never sleep again.”
“Even to kill.”
Samantha lowers her face and closes her eyes. “It changes you, Frank.”
They are silent for a moment, and Frank picks up the deep blue folder in his lap. For the first time Samantha notices a design. In the center, the profile of twin faces is outlined in silver.
“I flew to Washington yesterday, to report back to the corporation.” The frustration has left Frank’s voice. “I talked about your help with this case. Yours and Don’s.”
Samantha doesn’t respond.
“They gave me a new assignment, and I asked to bring you on—as a consultant, if you’re interested. This is the case file.”
She reaches for it, then stops herself. Frank stands and puts it on her desk. “Look it over and let me know what you think.”
“I—”
“Just look it over before you decide.” Frank smiles tentatively, then checks his watch. “I have to run to the station and see Snair about a few things. I’ll call you later tonight. Maybe we can have dinner or something.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll call you regardless.”
“I need some time. I’ll call you in the next few days.”
He looks at her skeptically.
“I promise,” she adds and reaches for his hand.
Everything in the apartment feels still. Their clasped hands fill the space between them, and Samantha smiles.
Frank squeezes her hand one more time before letting go. He turns, walking slowly, almost soundlessly, out the door.
Her eyes open suddenly in the darkness. At first, there is only panicked breathing and the tympani of a pounding heart. She struggles to lift her arms and legs but can’t move. Car tires screech on the street below, and she turns her head toward the window. Moisture beads on the inside of the pane. She tries again to move, straining until her body rises like an anchor from deep waters. One at a time, her feet touch the floor, and she begins to feel safe. Sweat bleeds through both sides of her T-shirt.
The bedside clock reads 3:20.
She wipes sweat from her forehead and gets up for a glass of water.
Standing at her desk, Samantha looks out at the cloudy haze covering the street. Even the sky is tentative, drizzling instead of raining. Not sure what it wants to do.
She turn on a lamp, and the blue folder glows like a jewel. She touches the cover with her fingertips, sliding them along the silver outline of faces. Inside, the letterhead on the cover page reads The Palici Corporation. She closes it—unsure if she wants to accept the responsibility for what’s inside.
She turns off the light to wait, preferring the misty darkness. She is afraid to check the clock, to start thinking about how few hours she has left before sunrise. Looking at her hands, she can’t remember the last time they touched someone else’s face. Frank’s face.
She tastes the salt with her tongue before feeling the moisture on her cheeks.
A drop falls onto the back of her right hand, then the left. The storm clouds have been building in Samantha for too long; the water finally falls. A hot, angry pain lessens, slowly becoming relief.
The waiting is over.
Coda
CEDAR RAPIDS, IOWA
OCTOBER 28, 2000
9:37 P.M.
Another bus. His third in as many days.
He has to keep moving. Some nutball attacked him, but that doesn’t matter now. Not for an ex-con.
The girl at the ticket booth is chewing gum and looking through a glossy magazine. He uses cash, and she slides the ticket underneath the Plexiglas without looking at him.
“Teenagers,” he mutters.
Sitting on an uncomfortable metal bench, he waits, head in hands. For the first time in his life, he has become restless at night. He has never been one to dream, but something leaves him feeling uneasy in the mornings. Quick flashes—images he can’t quite make out and doesn’t remember.
A bus pulls into the station with RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA printed on a digital sign above the driver’s window. He steps inside, hands his ticket to the driver, and sits in the back. Very little is in his wallet: $87.65, a few stolen credit cards, three driver’s licenses, a library card for the San Diego Public Library, and one document with his real name—a faded Social Security card.
A lot of good that’ll do, he thinks.
He takes one last look at the name—Jack Hansen—and puts it away. He closes his eyes but knows immediately that he won’t be able to sleep. Something is haunting him. Not his past. Not the death of that man. Something much greater. Something much more terrifying.
Acknowledgments
My agent, Elaine Markson, and my editor, Sarah Durand, have my heartfelt gratitude for their enthusiastic support and dedication. Their feedback and hard work have made this book a reality.
Several dear friends read early drafts of this manuscript, and their encouragement gave me the confidence to keep working. Many thanks to Sara Frane, Victoria E. Johnson, Christina Nelson, Manel Kappagoda, and Joshua Archibald. I also wish to thank Caitlin Hamilton and Jennifer Roche, who have invested a great deal of time and energy in promoting this project.
I have a number of friends whose unfailing support and love make everything possible: Ryan Losey, Daniel Kurtzman, Laura Garrett, Kirstin Ringelberg, Fiona Mills, Jessica O’Hara, Lilah Morris, Nina Yamanis, Satish Gopal, Robert and Jennifer Spirko, William Loewe, Brian Byrdsong, Jennifer Meltzer, Michael Everton, Pamela Cooper, Townsend Ludington, Kimball King, the Taha family, and David Ziring.
I have been fortunate to have exceptional teachers throughout my life. I particularly want to thank my mentor and friend, Linda Wagner-Martin. Her boundless intellectual and emotional support has been staggering.
I am also indebted to the English and Music Departments at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the University of California at Davis. They have given me incredible opportunities to grow and develop as an artist, teacher, and professional.
My mother, father, and brother have always supported me without question and believed in me without doubt. They have kept me grounded through their laughter, compassion, and generosity.
Lastly, Susann Cokal wins the award for reading the most drafts of this manuscript. A generous friend, dedicated editor, and consummate professional, Susann has challenged me to be a better writer at every stage of the project, and her efforts and remarkable talents are evident on every page.
To all of you, I am, truly, grateful.
About the Author
THOMAS FAHY grew up in Los Angeles. His childhood bedroom was furnished with a mattress and box spring, a record player, two shelves lined with his father’s classical records, and a monolithic upright piano. Not surprisingly, music has remained an important part of his life. He received a Ph.D. in literature from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and currently lives on the California central coast, where he is working on the sequel to Night Visions.
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
NIGHT VISIONS. Copyright © 2004 by Thomas Fahy. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieva
l system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
ePub Edition February 2007 ISBN 9780061750793
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