by The Echo Man
Byrne spun around. Viv stepped on a footstool, raised the bar of the stadiometer, then lowered it gently, touching the top of Byrne's head. 'What about height?' she asked. 'Would you like to know how tall you are?'
'I think I can handle my height. Emotionally speaking.'
'You're still six foot, three inches.'
'Good,' Byrne said. 'So I haven't shrunk.'
'Nope. You must be washing in cold water.'
Byrne smiled. He liked Viv, despite her vim.
'Come this way,' she said.
In the small, windowless examining room Byrne cruised the two battered magazines, picking up a dozen new 30-minute chicken recipes, along with some tips on how to get puppy stains out of the upholstery.
A few minutes later the doctor came in. She was Asian, about thirty, quite attractive. Pinned to her lab coat was a photo ID. Her name was Michelle Chu.
They got the pleasantries about the weather and the insanity of the people in the indoor parking garage out of the way. Dr. Chu ran through Byrne's history on the computer's LCD monitor. When she had him sufficiently pegged, she turned in her chair, crossed her legs.
'So, how long have you had insomnia?'
'Let me put it this way,' Byrne said. 'It's been so long that I can't remember.'
'Do you have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?'
'Both.'
'How long, on average, does it take you to fall asleep?'
All night, Byrne thought. But he knew what she meant. 'Maybe an hour.'
'Do you wake up during the night?'
'Yeah. At least a couple of times.'
The doctor made a few more notes, her fingers racing across the keyboard. 'Do you snore?'
Byrne knew the answer to this. He just didn't want to tell her how he knew. 'Well, these days I don't really have a steady...'
'Bed partner?'
'Yeah,' Byrne said. 'That. Do you think you could write me a prescription for one of those?'
She laughed. 'I could, but I don't think your insurance provider would cover it.'
'You're probably right,' Byrne said. 'I can barely get them to pay for the Ambien.'
Ambien. The magic drug, the magic word. At least around neurologists. He had her attention now.
'How long have you been taking Ambien?'
'On and off for as long as I can remember.'
'Do you think you've developed a dependence?'
'Without question.'
Dr. Chu handed him a pre-printed sheet. 'These are some of the sleep-hygiene suggestions we have—'
Byrne held up a hand. 'May I?'
'Absolutely.'
'No alcohol, caffeine, or high-fat foods late at night. No nicotine. Exercise regularly, but not within four hours of bedtime. Go to bed and get out of bed at the same times every day. Turn your alarm clock around so you can't see the time. Keep your bedroom cool, not cold. If you can't fall asleep in ten minutes or so, get out of bed until you feel tired again. Although, if you can't see your clock, I don't know how you're supposed to know it's been ten minutes.'
Dr. Chu stared at him for a few moments. She had stopped typing altogether. 'You seem to know quite a bit about this.'
Byrne shrugged. 'You do something long enough.'
She then typed for a full minute. Byrne just watched. When she was done she said, 'Okay. Hop up on the table, please.'
Byrne stood up, walked over to the paper-lined examining table, slid onto it. He hadn't hopped anywhere in years, if ever. Dr. Chu looked into his eyes, ears, nose, throat. She listened to his heart, lungs. Then she took out a tape measure, measured his neck.
'Hmm,' she said.
Never a good sign. 'I prefer a spread collar,' Byrne said. 'French cuffs.'
'Your neck's circumference is greater than seventeen inches.'
'I work out.'
She sat down, put her stethoscope around her neck. Her face took on a concerned look. Not the you are in deep shit look, but concerned. 'You have a few markers for sleep apnea.'
Byrne had heard of it, but he really didn't know anything about it. The doctor explained that apnea was a condition wherein a person stops breathing during the night.
'I stop breathing?'
'Well, we don't know that for sure yet.'
'I'm kind of in the stop-breathing business, you know.'
The doctor smiled. 'This is a little different. I think I should schedule you for a sleep study.' She handed him a brochure. Color pics of smiling, healthy people who looked like they got a lot of sleep.
'Okay.'
'You're willing to give it a shot?'
Anything was better than what he was going through. Except maybe the business about not breathing. 'Sure. I'm in.'
In the waiting room, three of the five people were asleep.
Byrne stopped at the American Pub in the Center Square Building on Market Street. The place was lively, and lively was just what was needed. He staked a place at the end of the bar, nursed a Bushmills. At just after ten o'clock his phone rang. He checked the ID, fully prepared to blow it off. It was a 215 exchange, with a familiar prefix. A PPD number. He had to answer.
'This is Kevin.'
'Detective Byrne?'
It was a woman's voice. A young woman's voice. He did not recognize it. 'Yes?'
'It's Lucy.'
It took Byrne a little while to realize who it was. Then he remembered. 'Hi, Lucy. Is something wrong?'
'I need to talk to you.'
'Where are you? I'll come get you.'
A long pause.
'Lucy?'
'I'm in jail.'
The Mini-Station was located on South Street between Ninth and Tenth. Originally activated in 1985 to provide weekend coverage from spring to autumn, addressing the issues generated by crowds gravitating to South Street for its clubs, shopping and restaurants, it had since become a seven days a week, twenty-four hours a day, year-round commitment, expanded to cover the entire corridor, which included more than 400 retail premises and nearly eighty establishments with liquor licenses.
When Byrne walked in, he immediately spotted an old comrade, P/O Denny Dorgan. Short and brick-solid, Dorgan, who was now in his early forties, still worked the bike patrol.
'Alert the hounds,' Dorgan said. 'We got royalty in the building.'
They shook hands. 'You getting shorter and uglier?' Byrne asked.
'Yeah. It's the supplements my wife is making me take. She thinks it will keep me from straying. Shows you what she knows.'
Byrne glanced over at Dorgan's bike, leaning near the front door. 'Good thing you can get heavy-duty shocks on the thing.'
Dorgan laughed, turned and looked at the waif-like girl sitting on the bench behind him. He turned back. 'Friend of yours?'
Byrne looked over at Lucy Doucette. She looked like a lost little kid.
'Yeah,' Byrne said. 'Thanks.'
Byrne wondered what Dorgan wondered, whether he thought that Byrne was dallying with a nineteen-year-old. Byrne had long ago stopped being concerned with what people thought. What had happened here was clear. Dorgan had stepped in between a misdemeanor and the law, on Byrne's behalf, and had done it as a favor to a fellow cop. The gesture would go into the books as a small act of kindness, and would one day be repaid. No more, no less. Everything else was squad-car scandal.
Byrne and Lucy had coffee at a small restaurant on South Street. Lucy told him the story. Or, it seemed to Byrne, the part she could bring herself to tell. She had been detained by security personnel at a kids'-clothing boutique on South. They said she'd attempted to walk out of the store with a pair of children's sweaters. The electronic security tags had been removed and were found underneath one of the sale racks, but Lucy had been observed walking around with the items, items which had not been returned to the racks. She had no sales receipts on her. Lucy had not resisted in the least.
'Did you mean to walk out with these items?'
Lucy buried her face in her hands for a moment. 'Yes. I was
stealing them.'
From most people Byrne would have expected vehement denials, tales of mistaken identity and dastardly set-ups. Not Lucy Doucette. He remembered her as a blunt and honest person. Well, she was not that honest, apparently.
'I don't understand,' Byrne said. 'Do you have a child? A niece or a nephew that these sweaters were for?'
'No.'
'A friend's child?'
Lucy shrugged. 'Not exactly.'
Byrne watched her, waiting for more.
'It's complicated,' she finally said.
'Do you want to tell me about it?'
Lucy took another second. 'Do I have to tell you now?'
Byrne smiled. 'No.'
The waitress refilled their cups. Byrne considered the young woman in front of him. He remembered how she had appeared in their therapy group. Shy, reluctant, scared. Not much had changed.
'Have you been back to any kind of treatment?' Byrne asked.
'Sort of.'
'What do you mean?'
Lucy told him a story, a story about a man called the Dreamweaver.
'How did you find this . .. Dreamweaver guy?'
Lucy rolled her eyes, tapped her fingers on her coffee cup for a few seconds, embarrassed. 'I found his card in the trash bin on my cart. It was right there, staring at me. It was like the card wanted me to find it. Like I was supposed to find it.'
Byrne gave Lucy a look, a look he hoped wasn't too scolding or paternal.
'I know, I know,' Lucy said. 'But I've tried everything else. I mean everything. And I think it might actually be doing me some good. I think it might be helping.'
'Well, that's what counts,' Byrne said. 'Are you going to see this guy again?'
Lucy nodded. 'One last time. Tomorrow.'
'You'll let me know what happens?'
'Okay.'
They stood on the corner of South and Third. The evening had grown cold.
'Do you have a car?' Byrne asked.
Lucy shook her head. 'I don't drive.'
Byrne glanced at his van, then back. 'I'm afraid I'm going the other way.' He took out his cellphone, called for a cab. Then he reached into his pocket pulled out a pair of twenties.
'I can't take that,' Lucy said.
'Pay me back someday, then.'
Lucy hesitated, then took the money.
Byrne put a hand on each of her slight shoulders. 'Look. You made a mistake today. That's all. You did the right thing calling me. We'll work it out. I want you to call me tomorrow. Will you promise to do that?'
Lucy nodded. Byrne saw her eyes glisten, but no tears followed. Tough kid. He knew that she had been on her own for a while, although she hadn't brought up her mother this time. Byrne didn't ask. She would tell him what she wanted to tell him. He was the same way.
'Am I going to prison?' she asked.
Byrne smiled. 'No, Lucy. You're not going to prison.' The cab arrived, idled. 'As long as you don't carjack this guy on the way home you should be fine.'
Lucy hugged him, got into the cab.
Byrne watched the cab drive away. Lucy's face was small and pale and frightened in the back window. He couldn't imagine the burden she carried. He'd had the same experience of not knowing what had happened to him or where he had gone for that short period of time when they had declared him dead. But he had been an adult, not a child.
The truth was, Lucy Doucette had a bogeyman. A bogeyman who had kidnapped her and held her for three long days. Three days of dead zone in her life. A bogeyman who lived in every shadow, stood waiting around every corner.
Byrne had gotten a vision when he hugged her, a sparkling clear image that told him about a man who—
—dates women with young daughters and comes back years later for the girls. . . something about red magnetic numbers on a refrigerator door. . . four numbers . . .
1 ...2...0...8.
Byrne made a mental note to call Lucy the next day.
Chapter 42
Jessica looked around the bedroom. At least they hadn't broken any lamps. They had, however, knocked everything off one of the night stands. She hoped her mother's Hummels were okay.
Jessica rolled over, gathered the sheets around her. Vincent looked as if he had been hit by a car.
'Hey, sailor.'
'No,' Vincent said. 'No, no, no.'
Jessica ran a finger over his lips. 'What?'
'You are a devil temptress.'
'I told you not to marry me.' She snuggled closer. 'What, are you worn out?'
Vincent caught his breath. Or tried to. He was coated with sweat. He pushed the covers off, remained silent.
'Boy, you macho Italian cops sure talk a good game,' Jessica said. 'Try to get you into round two? Fuggetaboutit.''
'Do we have any cigarettes?'
'You don't smoke.'
'I want to start.'
Jessica laughed, got out of bed, went down to the kitchen. She returned with two glasses of wine. If her calculations were correct - and they usually were at times like these, she had managed to get new appliances over the past two years by playing these moments just right - she would start her maneuvers in ten minutes.
On the other hand, this was not about a new washer or dryer. This was about a life. Their life. Sophie's life. And the life of a little boy.
When she slipped back into bed, Vincent was checking his messages on his cellphone. He put the phone down, grabbed his glass of wine. They clinked, sipped, kissed. The moment was right. Jessica said: 'I want to talk to you about something.'
Chapter 43
The man was stabbed twenty times by his lover. The killer, whose name was Antony - a bit of Shakespearean irony - then proceeded to cut open his own stomach, finally bleeding out on the parkway, not two hundred feet from the steps leading to the art museum. The papers ran stories for nearly a week, the high drama too much for them to resist.
I know what really happened.
The murder victim had simply made a meat dish on Good Friday and Antony, being the devout Vatican I Catholic he was, and this being 1939, could not take the shame and guilt. I know this because I can hear their final argument. It is still in the air.
The voices of the dead are a shrill chorus indeed.
Consider the man stabbed over his Social Security check, his final pleas lingering at Fifth and Jefferson Streets.
Or the teenager shot for his bicycle, forever crying at Kensington and Allegheny, right in front of the check-cashing emporium where the regular customers pass by with smug indifference.
Or the grandmother bludgeoned for her purse at Reese and West Dauphin, her voice to this day howling her husband's name, a man dead for more than thirty-five years.
It is becoming harder to keep them out. When I bring one to the other side, it quiets for a while. But not for long.
I push through the huge rusted gate, drive along the overgrown lane. I park in the pooled darkness, remove my shovels. The voices calm for a moment. All I can hear, as I begin to dig, is the slow, inexorable descent of leaves falling from the trees.
Chapter 44
Byrne couldn't sleep. The images of the four corpses rode a slow carousel in his mind. He got up, poured himself an inch of bourbon, flipped on the computer, logged onto the Net, launched a web browser. He cruised the headlines on philly.com, visited a few other sites, not really reading or comprehending.
Have you found them yet? The lion and the rooster and the swan? Are there others? You might think they do not play together, but they do.
He got onto YouTube. Once there, he typed in Christa-Marie Schönburg's name. Even before he was done typing, a drop-down window opened, listing a number of possibilities.
CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURG BACH
CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURG HAYDN
CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURG ELGAR
CHRISTA-MARIE SCHÖNBURGBRAHMS
Byrne had no idea where to begin. In fact, he really had no idea what he was doing, or exactly what he was looking for. On the surface he imagined
he was looking for a portal, admittedly obscure, to the case. Something that might trigger something else. Something that might begin to explain Christa-Marie's impenetrable note to him. Or maybe he was looking for a young detective who had walked into a house in Chestnut Hill in 1990 and there began a long, dark odyssey of bloodshed and tears and misery. Maybe he was really looking for the man he used to be.
The final entry on the list was:
Christa-Marie Schönburg Interview
Byrne selected it. It was three minutes long, recorded on a PBS show in 1988. Christa-Marie was at the height of her fame and talent. She looked beautiful in a simple white dress, drop earrings. As she answered questions about her playing, her celebrity at such a young age, and what it was like to play for Riccardo Muti, she vacillated between confident career woman, shy schoolgirl, enigmatic artiste. More than once she blushed, and put her hair behind one ear. Byrne had always thought her an attractive woman, but here she was stunning.
When the interview was complete Byrne clicked on the Bach entry. The browser took him to a page that linked to a number of other Christa-Marie Schönburg videos. Her entire public life was shown in freeze-frames down the right-hand side of the page - bright gowns and brighter lights.
He clicked on Bach Cello Suite No. 1. It was a montage video, all still photographs. The photographs in the montage, one slowly dissolving into the next, showed Christa-Marie at a number of ages, a variety of poses and settings: in a studio, smiling at the camera, a side view on stage, a low-angle photograph of her at nineteen, a look of intense concentration on her face. The last photograph was Christa- Marie at nine years old, a cello leaning against the wall next to her, almost twice her size.
Byrne spent most of the next hour watching the YouTube offerings. Many were collage-type videos, assembled by fans, but there were also live performances. The last video was Christa-Marie and a pianist in a studio, playing Beethoven's Sonata No. 3 in A. At the halfway point, in close-up, Christa-Marie looked up, straight at the lens, straight at Byrne.