Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

by CJ Lyons

  Or company. Ryder’s gait matched mine, even though I walk very fast. When we were married, Jacob, despite his longer legs, was always rushing to catch up with me. Which pretty much sums up our marriage as well. Two people in love, but totally out of sync.

  I couldn’t help looking over at Ryder. Wondering what went on behind his cop-neutral facade. Hoped maybe I’d have time to find out. After I got a clean bill of health from Louise.

  “I know you’re probably exhausted, but I’ll need you to give us a statement,” Ryder said, finally breaking the silence. His arm brushed against mine, but other than that, it was business as usual. He was a cop on his way back to a crime scene, and I was a witness. “I need to know everything you saw down there.”

  “Devon can tell you more—”

  “I need to hear it from someone I can trust.” An expression flitted across his face, shadowed by the green glow of a traffic light, giving me the feeling he didn’t use that last word very often.

  His life and job were very like my own. Trust no one, assume nothing.

  I told him everything. From meeting Devon and learning that Father Vance was a former gang member—he nodded like he’d already known that—to Ozzie leading us to Esme. Only things I left out were my little “spells” and Devon’s relationship to Esme.

  Felt guilty as hell about it. Ryder trusted me, but I wasn’t trusting him. Even though I wanted to. But some truths weren’t mine to share, and others were simply too risky. I knew how easily lawyers could destroy a case by labeling a witness unreliable. Until I knew more about my condition, the less he knew, the less compromised his case would be.

  The closer we got to St. Tim’s and the Tower, the more distant he grew. The red and blue flashing lights filled the sky from two blocks away.

  “How much trouble are you in?” I was certain that Ryder’s entering the tunnels with Tyree was totally against regulations. Not to mention pissing off Daniel Kingston, the most powerful man in Cambria.

  “Same as usual. They’ll give me a lecture on getting emotionally involved. Again.” His tone was wry. “They already busted me from Major Crimes to Sex and Juvie. Only thing lower down the rung is Traffic.”

  That rankled. I’d fallen into my position at the Advocacy Center after working several nasty cases where the system had broken down. So I’d decided to take the system on and fix it. I’m proud of the work we do there. Not just for the victims, but for all the crimes we prevent, getting predators off the streets.

  I stopped. If I really was… sick, incapacitated, about to lose my job, I wanted only the best people there to take over for me. Ozzie sank to his haunches, watching as Ryder took two more steps before realizing I wasn’t following, and turned back.

  “What?”

  “I know what cops say about working with the Advocacy Center. I’ve heard the jokes. If you don’t want the job, I’ll find someone else.”

  His mouth opened, then he clamped it shut, trying hard not to say something. He stared at me, red and blue lights flashing behind him. Then he nodded. Just one quick jerk of his chin, up and down. Making a decision. About me.

  “Want to know why I got sent down to Sex Crimes?” He answered without waiting for me to say anything, “When I worked Major Crimes, they called me a hotshot. On the fast track. Until,” he gave a one-shouldered shrug, “there was this case, and suddenly, it just all didn’t seem to mean anything anymore. Yeah, it’s great nailing a homicide, but most of them are either no-brainers or stone-cold whodunits that you’ll never solve because no one dares to come forward. Not like working with your kind of victims.”

  I studied his face, searching for permission. “Tell me about the case.”

  He drew in a breath but immediately released it, as if the air tasted bad. “I was interviewing this shithead. We had him on possession, but the DA made a deal in exchange for testimony on a shooter we were looking for, let him walk. Whole time he just kept on smiling at me, like he knew something I didn’t.

  “Anyway, we arrest the shooter, then a few days later go to take our star witness, aka the shithead, in for a deposition. We get to his squat and find this girl, eleven years old, living there all alone. And she’s mad—at us. Fighting and cursing and scratching. Says we drove him away and he left her behind because she was getting too big—but he took her little sister…”

  He trailed off. Didn’t need to finish. I could fill in the gaps well enough. “You find her?”

  “Feds did. Outside of DC. Body dumped at a rest stop off the interstate. Guy had taken them both from his girlfriend, probably the only reason he hooked up with her to start with, been raping them for years. Never found the shithead. Guess I kinda lost it with the ADA who’d pushed the deal.”

  He caught my look. “No, it wasn’t Voorsanger. Your ex is actually a pretty decent ADA. Listens to us peons, even if his boss doesn’t. Anyway, insubordination, my boss called it. But I’m glad—maybe working Sex Crimes, I can stop some of this shit before there’s a body, before there’s another dead little girl.”

  “You know that’s not necessarily true.”

  “I know. Doesn’t mean I can’t hope. Some days that’s all I got.” He looked up, stretched his mouth into a fake smile, saw I wasn’t buying it and relaxed. “Anyways, I’m where I want to be. You’ve got my A-game.”

  I started walking again, a bit more slowly. “Good to know. Anything I can do to help with your bosses?”

  “Don’t worry about it. I get them results, they’re not going to do more than throw paper into my jacket.”

  I wondered at that. Most of the detectives we’ve had at the Advocacy Center, while devoted to the victims whose cases they worked, still had ambitions, saw their time in Sex Crimes as a stepping stone to greater things. Usually, they were on their way up to Major Crimes or another promotion—not on their way down, like Ryder.

  “You talk like this is the end of the road for you. Careerwise.”

  He looked away, his gaze caught by the emergency vehicles crowding the street. “Maybe so. It’s not a bad ending. Not if we get the job done.”

  My sentiments exactly.

  We arrived at my car at the edge of the tangle of official vehicles. “I want to help.”

  He scowled at that. “You’ve done enough already.”

  “Take Ozzie. Maybe he can lead you to Esme or at least track her once you’ve got the tunnels clear and can go back in.”

  He took the leash I handed him. Ozzie looked from me to Ryder, tail wagging, no complaints. “Thanks. That’s a good idea.”

  He lingered, both of us wanting to say more. Neither having any idea what to say. I fished out my keys. “You’ll call me if you hear anything?”

  I didn’t say “please,” but I knew he heard it. “Of course.”

  “Take care of Ozzie.”

  “I will.”

  Wanting to linger but running out of reasons, I risked touching his arm. “You’ll find her. I know you will.”

  He looked away, didn’t seem as certain. Just like me in the ER—never making promises I couldn’t keep.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Ryder joined the men at the back of the fire lieutenant’s SUV. Figured it was better to hold off on showing his face to any higher-ups, hoping the brass and media would get tired and go away, let him work in peace. When in doubt, regroup, recon, reacquire the target.

  He now had victims scattered over four crime scenes; seven of them with families to locate, notify, and interview; one still a Jane Doe; and one of them a critical missing juvenile—which took priority over everything.

  Despite all this, or maybe as a respite to it, his skin tingled with the memory of Rossi’s touch. It’d been a long time since any woman had had that effect on him. He was a little scared to think about it too much, even more frightened to actually acknowledge any feelings other than simple attraction. Remaining comfortably numb was a far safer strategy.

  “What’re you smiling about?” the fire LT snapped, sluicing rain water
from his Tyvek maps with the side of his hand.

  “Just enjoying a good clusterfuck.” Ryder gestured to the chaos behind them.

  “Got that right.” He reached down to pat Ozzie on the head. “Nice dog.”

  “Where we at?”

  “Good news is that Gator Guy came through.” He nodded to a man sitting in the backseat wearing a DOC jumpsuit and sipping coffee from between manacled hands. Ryder nodded back to him and the guard beside him.

  “Thanks for joining the party.”

  “No problem,” the guard grunted, looking bored.

  Gator Guy—the name on his jumpsuit was Jessup—squirmed around in his seat so he faced Ryder and the LT. “You tell him about the power, right? You guys can’t turn the juice on, not unless you want to see it all blown sky-high.”

  “What’s he talking about?”

  “The electricity.” The LT sighed. “The tunnels were originally wired in the fifties—”

  “1952,” Jessup put in. “Good, solid work. Not like that cheap ’70’s shit that came later.”

  “When they built the Tower,” Ryder said.

  “Right.” Jessup talked like he owned the Tower instead of Daniel Kingston. “But that chickenshit wiring over at the Tower needed patched and repaired, cobbled together basically. So finally they hooked into the tunnel’s infrastructure.”

  “But then folks like Jessup came along and jumped onto the grid on their own,” the LT chimed in.

  “Hey, man, my plants needed their sunshine, ya know?”

  “You grew pot down there?” Ryder asked.

  “Back in the day. Before I got chased out by the gangbangers and the rich guy’s security goons.” Jessup shook his head, half-reminiscing, half-regret. “You wouldn’t believe the shit I saw down there. Sometimes I wasn’t even high.”

  “That why you got an alligator when you moved your operation?”

  “Hell yeah. Lizzie was the best security money could buy. Until she got peckish for a midnight snack and burned down my place. Of course,” he brightened, “any evidence of hydroponic activity got burned as well, so all’s I got is a Class D, easy time.”

  “Tell me about exits from the tunnels.” Ryder wanted to calculate where he should be searching for Esme, which direction her abductor might have taken.

  “That’s the bad news,” the LT said. “Not only can we not turn on the lights down there—”

  “Not without ka-boom.” Jessup raised his hands with a whoosh that made his coffee jump.

  “Jessup also gave us intel on five unofficial exits not on the map.” He gestured with his pen. “Here, here, and here. The other two are the church basement and the sewer line that runs right under this street.”

  Ryder followed on the map. “Access the sewers, and you can go anywhere in the city.”

  “Bingo.”

  Which meant it was too late. Whoever had taken Esme could be free of the tunnels and on the other side of the city by now.

  The SWAT team leader ambled over, coffee sandwiched between hands encased in Nomex shooting gloves. Ryder looked at it longingly.

  “Ryder, you made it back in one piece. Might not last long. Deputy chief’s looking for you.”

  The brass could wait. “How much ground have you guys covered?”

  “Now that Tyree is back and cooperating, the uniforms are progressing with the door-to-door in the Tower.”

  Ryder grunted. He’d bet the Major Crimes guys were happy about that. Made working their homicides easier, but he was certain Esme wouldn’t be found in the Tower. The knot in his stomach writhed, a tangled nest of vipers baring their fangs. He’d lost her. Failure tensed his shoulder blades. “How’s it going in the tunnels? Tyree give you what you need?”

  The SWAT guy nodded. “Intel on his IEDs. But his group wasn’t the only one using the tunnels. Besides that room where you found those kids, we found more evidence of some kind of satanic voodoo cult or something. I’m telling you, there’s some freaky shit down there.”

  Ryder thought of the children’s prison, covered in crucifixes and mirrors. “Tell me about it.”

  “It’s slow-going. We were only able to clear your new crime scene and the area immediately surrounding it before we got pulled.”

  “Pulled? Who pulled you? Why?” Any trace of Esme was growing colder by the minute.

  “Are you kidding me? I did. We’re not equipped. No lights, shit everywhere. Place is a fucking death trap. And with those damn catwalks, we have to create a perimeter, clear them of any possible snipers, secure the high ground. Only then can we start to clear the rooms below. And once those are secured, we have to leave men behind on the catwalks to guard our flanks. You got an extra hundred men hiding in your back pocket?”

  Ryder glanced across the crowd. The deputy chief stood beneath a hastily erected awning, safe from the rain. Beside him was Daniel Kingston. Both men wore tuxedos, were chatting, obviously comfortable with each other. “You gave the order? Not Kingston?”

  “Kingston? What’s he got to do with anything? I gave the chief my tactical assessment, and he agreed. Orders are to wait until morning when we can team up with the county bomb squad and the staties, get the dogs down there sniffing. Even with their help, we’ll be going inch by inch. Might have the place cleared by Christmas if we’re lucky.”

  “What about using thermal imaging? At least make sure there’s no one else trapped down there.” His stomach twisted at the thought of finding another room with little kids imprisoned in it.

  “Way ahead of you,” the fire guy answered. “We tried both our units and yours. Nothing works. That place was built to literally withstand a nuclear holocaust. No way our gear is getting through those walls.”

  Ryder rubbed his temples, trying to ease the headache squeezing his brain. Esme was long gone.

  Still, he couldn’t help but hope. It was his greatest weakness. Probably would get him killed someday if he wasn’t careful, but he just couldn’t help it. Extinguish that tiny flicker of hope that kept him warm enough to sleep at night, and he’d be no different from the walking dead he’d seen during the war. Men with dead eyes, dead hearts, just waiting for the rest of their bodies to catch up and die as well.

  <<<>>>

  When Ryder walked away, I leaned against the Subaru, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to my life. I hadn't had a perfect life, but between the ER and the Advocacy Center, it was a full one. I kept busy, thought I was doing well.

  Now it seemed my life had devolved into a cosmic joke. One I didn’t know the punch line to.

  I stood there, surrounded by too many questions, including: How the hell was I getting home? It was clear I couldn't drive, not until I could prevent my mind from spinning away beyond my control. Good thing it was only half a mile or so to Jimmy’s Place, my uncle’s bar, above which I rented an apartment.

  But still I stood there, doing nothing.

  As I sifted through the night’s events, trying to arrange them into some kind of sense, I couldn’t stop staring at the church across the street. Remembering the scent of candle wax, the crucifixes surrounding the children’s prison, I wondered if my newfangled hyper-sensory fugue-spells could be put to good use. Maybe I could figure out a way to trigger one on command, somehow force my mind to make the subliminal connections it had while I was down in the tunnels when a fugue led me to the children.

  After all, if you’re losing your mind, might as well make the best of it, right?

  Which is exactly why doctors make the worst patients. Not because we know too much, but because we can rationalize and deny just about any symptom. We’re the ultimate control freaks, and we decide when something is wrong and how to fix it. Or so we’d like to believe.

  So, instead of finding a safe bed to crawl into or a nice padded cell, instead of walking to my uncle’s bar and snagging Jacob for a marathon night of steamy sex, I left the car and trudged back up the steps of St. Tim’s.

  Pausing at the top step, palpitations
making my body sway, sweat trickling down my spine, I stared at the sea of red and blue and white lights that fanned out on the far side of the church. It was easy to pick Ryder out of the crowd of testosterone. His posture was that of a man going into battle—and he didn’t seem too happy about it.

  Wishing him luck, I turned to fight my own war and grabbed the ice-cold handle of the church’s door. Half-hoping Vance had locked it behind me, I tugged.

  Bad luck. It opened.

  I entered the vestibule, couldn’t help remembering how intense my connection with Ryder had been—here, in the ER, out on the street. It felt dangerous. He felt dangerous. Not like he could hurt me. Rather, if I didn’t take care, I might hurt him.

  One more crazy, tangled flavor to add to the night’s Molotov cocktail.

  The church was dark except for the light over the altar, a sunbeam from heaven smiling down on Jesus nailed to the cross. I slid into a pew—not kneeling, I wasn’t here to pray—and sat. Just sat. One blessed quiet moment.

  Everyone has their breaking point. No matter if you’re a tough cop with years on the job, a swelled-ego surgeon, a seasoned nurse, a brave-hearted firefighter, or a tired ER doc who’d lost track of the last time she’d slept.

  Sooner or later, we all break. Crash and burn. Shatter.

  I was there. Finally. As close to rock bottom as I’d ever been. I slumped in the wooden pew, my emotions churning into an exhausted frenzy. My head felt like a bowling ball that had hit the gutter too many times while my hand was twitching in time to the “Flight of the Bumblebee.”

  Add a little drool, and I’d look like a refugee from the psych ward. Which was maybe where I belonged.

  I sat there, eyes closed, desperate for sleep. Instead, all I got was a whirlwind of fear dragging me down: How sick was I? What new symptom would appear next? Would it hurt?

  Was I going to die?

  As soon as they found Esme, I’d call Louise, get myself checked out, tell her about all the crazy shit going on in my head. As soon as they found Esme.