Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

by CJ Lyons

  Shari finished sealing her evidence and signed it over to the waiting police officer. Ryder didn’t officially start with the advocacy team until Monday, but he was going to have his hands full already.

  “Ready to help me examine our other victims?” I asked Shari after the ICU team had wheeled Jane Doe away.

  “The kids? What’s the plan?”

  “First, we’ll collect their clothing, photograph and document any gross injuries. That’s probably all we’ll be able to do tonight.” I explained the tricky situation and primitive group dynamics the kids exhibited. “No way they’ll tolerate being separated.”

  “We should start with the oldest, show the younger ones that there’s nothing that hurts.”

  “Right. Make a game out of it. We’ll give them PJs to change into, let them have fun getting their picture taken.”

  She winced when I said the word “fun” but nodded in understanding. It was a fine line, trying to collect evidence and assess injuries without psychologically damaging the kids more than they already had been.

  “What if they want to wash up?”

  Tricky. I didn’t want to lose any possible skin evidence if any of the kids had been sexually assaulted. Hoped they hadn’t, but given the girl’s exam, I couldn’t rule that out.

  “We’ll play that by ear.” We stopped to grab some kid- and toddler-sized pajamas and put a call into pediatrics asking for a few nurses to help.

  Then we returned to the Advocacy Center and got to work.

  <<<>>>

  Ryder watched as Rossi and a nurse talked to each child, persuading them to change their clothes and get their picture taken, while Price entertained the rest and the social worker took notes between phone calls trying to figure out where to place the kids on a holiday. At first the children balked, grabbing at their T-shirts like they would never let go. But a few quiet words and a smile from Rossi, and they’d pull the T-shirt over their heads, drop it into the paper bag the nurse held, stretch their arms up and twirl around as the nurse took photos with a digital camera, before climbing into the new pajamas Rossi offered them.

  Despite Rossi’s best efforts to turn the proceedings into a game, none of the kids smiled. Or fully relaxed. Not until they were back with the others, able to throw themselves into the group and distance themselves from the adults.

  The last little girl, about five or six, broke Ryder’s heart when she kept repeating over and over as she let Rossi examine her and re-dress her, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

  Rossi sat back on her haunches, blinking rapidly, watching the girl rejoin the others. The girl didn’t say anything more, instead simply sat beside the dog, arms curled around her knees, rocking, as the kids around her devoured second helpings of ice cream.

  Price, of all people, saved the day, plopping down on the floor in front of the girl with a bowl of ice cream. He held it between them, offering it without saying anything, and waited. The girl didn’t move until her gaze flicked up to search his face. And spotted the spoon hanging from his nose.

  Soon, he had her eating ice cream, even let her smear some on his chin, and had coaxed her into giving him a hint of a smile.

  Rossi stood at that and left. A minute later, she sat beside Ryder in the small, dark observation room, face buried in her hands.

  She wasn’t crying. He figured she was years past tears. Just like he was.

  “You’re doing a good job,” he told her after a few minutes of silence except for the occasional shy giggle from the kids as Price showed them how to let the dog lick ice cream from their palms.

  She shrugged, her shoulders heaving as if throwing off a burden.

  “You are. People respond to you. It’s a gift.”

  “Yeah, some gift. Damaged kids, dying old ladies, victims—no wonder I do so well with men.”

  “You do just fine with me. And I’m not a victim, not damaged, or wounded.”

  “Aren’t you, Ryder? Aren’t we all?” She paused, gestured past him to the kids devouring their ice cream. “I mean, otherwise, why would we be doing this job, poking into the dark corners of the soul that normal people run away from? The stuff of nightmares. That’s what we live with every day. There’s got to be something wrong with us, right?”

  “You mean like we feel a connection to the violence we see every day?”

  “I mean, like, somewhere inside, deep inside, hidden away, don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to just let go, break all the rules, run amok like the psychopaths you hunt?”

  Hard to say anything when he’d asked himself the same question and had no answer. He remained silent, wondering if she had seen him when he almost lost it with Tyree, if she knew how close he had come to killing the bastard.

  “Any news on Esme?” she asked.

  Her expression was bleak, and he knew she knew he would have told her immediately if he had. “I’ve got as many people on it as possible. Even have the crew in dispatch calling all the local businesses near any exits from the tunnels requesting surveillance tape if they have it.”

  “On Thanksgiving night?”

  “It’s a little girl. But you’re right, for most we won’t have anything until morning. Other than an Amber Alert—not much use without a vehicle or description of who took her—there’s nothing we can do until we can get into the tunnels. My guys are working on that, but it’s going to take time.”

  “Devon’s right. Odds are, whoever took her is long gone. He obviously knew his way around down there, wouldn’t have risked getting caught by staying in the tunnels.” She sighed, the sound heavy.

  “Give me another place to look, and I’m there.” His phone rang. Before he answered it, he reached across the space between them and squeezed her arm. Wished he could give her more.

  “Ryder here.” He stood, turned to Rossi. “It’s Philly PD about our mutual friend.” He nodded to Price, his designer suit now smeared with ice cream. “I have to take it.”

  He stepped outside. The hall was silent, as quiet as a hospital got outside the morgue. But somehow the sights and sounds—all those kids, Rossi—clung to him even as he raised the phone and listened to the voice on the other end of the line. He placed one palm flat against the door to the observation area, kept his voice business-like, just the facts, but found himself unable to totally pull away from the emotions in the room beyond.

  His job would have been so much easier if he didn’t feel anything. Maybe he’d even be a better cop if he could divorce his emotions. But he had so little left, he just couldn’t bring himself to bury what remained.

  Hoped like hell that wasn’t a huge mistake.

  <<<>>>

  Flynn was confused. She despised being confused. Over the past three years, she’d deliberately pared down her life to the bare essentials. No room for indecision. No room for confusion. Black and white, she knew what to do and she did it.

  She was in control.

  Until tonight.

  She’d lost track of Leo but then had stumbled across the girl hiding on the top row of shelving. She’d assumed Leo had screwed up and let the girl escape. Snuck up close, ready to grab her, and was surprised to see she was young—even for Leo. She had hesitated, was about to sit back and watch, see who the new people on the scene were. One of them was definitely a cop, and Tyree she recognized, but she had no idea who the other guy was.

  The woman she knew—would never forget her face. The doctor from Good Samaritan who had saved her life, started her on this path. What the hell was she doing here, so far below ground, in the dark, walking her dog?

  Then the really weird shit started.

  The girl—Esme, Dr. Rossi had called her—climbed out from her hiding place. And someone hidden in the shadows on the other side of the tunnel started shooting at them. Shooting at the girl—no way he’d seen Flynn.

  What was she supposed to do? Let the girl get killed?

  Flynn caught the girl’s look of terror, and it echoed in her own memories. No
way could she trust Tyree or any cops who were with him. She might have been tempted to trust Dr. Rossi if the doctor had been alone, but the man with her had a gun. Who knew whose side he was on? Bullets flying toward them, she’d grabbed the girl and run.

  Now that she had time to think about it, she regretted acting so impulsively. She had a girl on her hands—just a little kid, stunned into silence when Flynn showed her the gun—strangers crawling through the tunnels, a cop with them, which meant more cops coming soon, plus Leo on the loose. Was he the shooter? If so, could she risk going back to the brownstone? And then there was Daniel Kingston, waiting for her to save his son’s ass, once again.

  Fuckinhelluvamess.

  She didn’t swear, not out loud, not often. Daniel didn’t approve, and she’d left that street crassness behind. But sometimes there were just no other words to do justice to the chaos that swarmed her when the world got too much to handle. It was like a beast let out of control, rampaging through her body, ready to kill.

  No. That was the old her. Three years ago and blood on her hands. She could control the beast, beat it at its own game, use its strength without letting it use her.

  She could. She would.

  Her thoughts fell into the rhythm of her silent footsteps, calming her as she moved along the catwalk, the girl slung over her shoulder. Good thing the kid was skinny.

  But what the hell to do with her?

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The kids were still eating—graduating to chicken nuggets and fries—and pediatrics had freed up a nurse to watch them. The social worker had been able to negotiate a truce with Children’s Services. Given how traumatized the children were and their need for further observation and psychological evaluations, we’d been given permission to keep them overnight. So far we’d been able to keep news of them out of the press, but I knew that wouldn’t last long. Thankfully, the Advocacy Center is self-contained, so we could keep them safe here.

  Ryder went to arrange for a police officer to stand guard outside the Advocacy Center’s entrance, while I asked an orderly to bring blankets and pillows. There was no way we’d be able to separate them tonight. They probably wouldn’t sleep anyway. Other children I’d cared for after being isolated for prolonged periods had the same hyper-energized buzz these kids exhibited. Between their day/night cycles being disrupted and the adrenaline pumping through their systems—not to mention the sugar high—it would be awhile before they crashed and slept.

  But the kids were safe. For tonight.

  It rankled that the situation was as good as I could make it. In fact, once we unraveled the tangle of custody issues, found out who was behind all this, and the news broke, tonight might be the best memory they made for a long time.

  The kids all said solemn good-byes to Ozzie, giving him hugs he patiently sat through. I don’t think they even noticed Devon and I leaving with him.

  Reluctantly, I closed the door behind us and turned down the hall leading back to the ER. “Come on, Ryder’s waiting for us.”

  Devon shot me a look. “I have to get back out there, look for Esme. Can’t you just pretend I slipped away and you didn’t notice?”

  “Do I look like the kind of woman who wouldn’t notice a man and a dog wandering through her ER?”

  He sighed and addressed Ozzie. “That’s what I get for letting her come with me.”

  “Letting me? I should have made you give me directions and gone alone.”

  “Alone? You’d be lost or worse—” He stopped, his face clouding, and I knew we were both thinking of Tyree’s booby traps. Those would have been a nasty surprise.

  “Still, I work better alone.”

  “So do I.”

  We crossed into the ER. “Is Ryder going to lock you up?”

  “The gun’s clean, and I don’t have any warrants. But the cops won’t get anywhere with Tyree.”

  “You will?” I remembered the animosity between Tyree and Devon when they’d met in the tunnels. “Besides, he’s Esme’s uncle. If he knew anything, he would have already either told someone or sent one of his men to get her himself.”

  He bounced back and forth, glanced over his shoulder at the doors to the Advocacy Center. “I was hoping those kids might know something.” He blew his breath out. “I don’t even know where to start.”

  “Ryder’s doing everything he can.” Devon’s expression turned skeptical. “He’s a good guy. Don’t underestimate him.”

  As if my words had conjured him, Ryder appeared down the hall, coming from the security office. He nodded to Devon, stopped and waited, giving us a few more moments of privacy.

  “You’ll take care of the dog?” Devon handed me Ozzie’s leash.

  What the hell was I going to do with a dog?

  Ozzie raised his head and nosed my palm until I scratched between his ears. Devon shook his head as if abandoning a lost cause. “Or maybe he’ll be taking care of you. He seems pretty clued into these fits of yours.”

  I’d noticed that as well. Some dogs can sense things like seizures, are used as companions for patients. Patient. There was that ugly word again. Devon read my mind. “You are gonna have a doctor check you out, right?”

  My glare had no effect on him.

  “You could’ve gotten us both killed if you’d had one of those spells at the wrong time.”

  “You going to tell Esme you’re her father when we find her?” I countered.

  He scrutinized the bulletin board on the wall beside us as he locked his emotions away.

  “I saw you with those kids. You’d make a good father.”

  “Can’t tell her. Might get her hurt. If she’s still—” He drew in a breath, turned back to me, all business now. “If for any reason I’m not around… I mean, if something, anything—”

  “I won’t stop looking. I promise.”

  He nodded, sealing our bargain. “Guess that means you’d better get yourself a clean bill of health. For Esme’s sake.”

  I hated to admit that was highly unlikely. Whatever was behind my symptoms, it was escalating in strange and mysterious ways.

  We joined Ryder at the end of the corridor near the ambulance bay entrance beside the security office.

  “I checked you out, Price,” Ryder said. “Philly PD says I should lock you up first chance I get.”

  Devon met Ryder’s challenge head on, extending his wrists for handcuffs. “Got something to lock me up for, go ahead.”

  It wasn’t animosity that crackled between the two men, but it wasn’t friendship either. More a leery mutual respect. “Wish I did. You’re free to go.”

  “My gun?”

  Ryder arched an eyebrow as if surprised that Devon would push things. “You can get it back as soon as ballistics is done with it.”

  Devon considered that, then nodded.

  “Thanks for your help down there, Price.” They didn’t shake hands, barely made eye contact, but it seemed to be enough.

  Devon started toward the exit, then turned and looked over his shoulder. “Take care, doc.”

  Sounded like he meant it.

  I waited while Ryder escorted Devon to the doors, watching him walk away, as if his glare would be enough to hustle Devon past the city limits and out of his jurisdiction.

  By the time he turned back to face me, I’d bullied my exhausted psyche back into my usual facade of professionalism. Or at least a pretense of it. Had to admit, though, it was a bit reassuring to see the expression on Ryder’s face before he knew I was looking: haggard with a hint of despair, echoing my own feelings.

  “Who did this, Ryder? Why lock up those kids?”

  “I wish I knew.” He sank against the wall beside me, the dog sitting between us. “According to Petrosky, things over at the Tower have deteriorated into a block-party-slash-riot. Tyree’s lawyer got him released. The chief wants my head for calling out the troops without his permission, but that’s not keeping him from smiling for the cameras.”

  “Does the press know about th
e children?”

  “Not yet. So far they think it’s all about finding Esme and investigating a double homicide. I’m keeping it that way as long as possible. Top things off, Daniel Kingston wants my badge. That man,” he rolled his eyes, “makes Donald Trump look like a choirboy.”

  “Why would he care?”

  “He owns the Tower and the tunnel complex beneath it. Was livid we were trespassing. At least until the camera crews showed up, then he was all sunshine and rainbows, concerned for Esme’s well-being.”

  The anger coloring his voice surprised me. “Daniel Kingston’s money and charitable contributions are about the only thing holding this town together.”

  “Yeah, like that banker, Potter, in It’s a Wonderful Life. He wants this city for himself, his personal fiefdom.”

  “Never knew a conspiracy nut who liked It’s a Wonderful Life.”

  “I’m not a conspiracy nut. Just someone who’s seen too much.”

  “I know that feeling.”

  “You must be exhausted. You’re not working today, are you?”

  “No.” I glanced at the clock. One twenty. I wanted to meet Louise as soon as she got into work. I had to know what was going on in my screwed-up brain, for better or worse.

  “Want me to call someone to take you to your car?” Ryder asked.

  I shook my head. “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

  Ozzie recognized the magic word and nosed my knee.

  Ryder’s frown was there and gone in a flash, replaced by a smile that made his face seem young and his eyes seem old. “Should’ve figured. The worst three blocks in the city, and you want to walk them at one thirty in the morning.”

  “After those tunnels, they don’t seem so bad. And the rain’s stopped.” We strolled through the sliding doors and back outside into the night. “Okay. Maybe a police escort wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all.”

  He chuckled but didn’t take my arm. Instead, he positioned himself on my right side, keeping his gun hand free. I switched the leash to my left hand, and now Ozzie guarded me from the other side. Couldn’t ask for better protection.