Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

by CJ Lyons

  Fatal insomnia. The words collided in my brain, didn’t make any sense. Except… “All those years of medical school and residency, training myself to not need sleep—not to mention the crazy mixed-up shifts I work in the ER. And now you’re telling me I might actually die from insomnia?”

  “You’re young for it.” She was hedging. “But the stress of your altered sleep-wake cycle could have precipitated it.”

  “How many patients we talking about? Is there a cure?”

  “A few hundred known cases.”

  That was pretty damn rare. No wonder I’d never heard of it. “Yearly?”

  She shook her head. “Total. Since 1765. From the brief research I was able to do, there are about sixty today. Alive. Across the entire planet. The only research center is in Italy. I’m waiting to hear back from them on treatment options.”

  “Sixty out of seven billion people on the planet. That’s like one in a million.”

  “More like one in one hundred million.”

  My brain was struggling to comprehend the odds. Although, who cared about the odds when you were the one? “Luck like that, I should buy a lottery ticket.”

  She ducked her head, focusing on the papers before her. And it hit me. What she already knew but couldn’t say.

  Why bother buying a lottery ticket when you weren’t going to be around long enough to see if you won?

  She reached a hand toward my shoulder.

  Toddler that I am at times, I pushed hard with my feet, propelling the wheeled stool out of range of her comfort.

  Louise crossed her arms, hugging my chart to her chest. “There’s been speculation that quinacrine may slow the progression—”

  “Do I have time for speculation?”

  “Maybe.” She hesitated, her mind scouring a hundred checklists of variables. “The average time from start of symptoms until death is eighteen months.” She scribbled a prescription for the quinacrine. “If I’m wrong, it won’t hurt anything. It’s worth a try while we’re waiting for the genetic test results. In the meantime, you need to quit working.”

  I took the tiny piece of paper, held it between my fingers, waving in the air. “Quit?”

  “Take leave.” She tried to soften the blow. “And no more driving. At least until we know for sure.”

  I stood, the blood rushing to my toes in an ice-cold wave of fear.

  “Angela, I’m sorry. Maybe I’m wrong. I hope I am.”

  Louise was never wrong. Not about something this important.

  “You can cross it off your list,” I said as I opened the door to leave.

  She frowned, blinked as if there might be tears in her eyes, and nodded. Neither of us had to say what she would be crossing off her to-do list.

  No doubt some polite variant of: Tell Angela Rossi she’s dying.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I retreated to my office in the Advocacy Center and hit Medline—the medical community’s online search engine—hard.

  No mention of talking dead nuns or other abnormal communication in any of the fatal insomnia literature. But other almost equally weird symptoms abounded. Catatonic states that sounded like my fugues. People suddenly performing wildly creative feats.

  Like a guy who had only a high school education solving a complex math theorem that had stumped geniuses like Einstein for centuries, or a woman who previously had no writing ambition creating a remarkable, award-winning literary gem. As if they were tapping previously unexplored regions of their brains.

  Sparks of genius tempering their descent into madness. Four months later, that savant mathematician went on a crazy spree and took his own life by walking naked into the ocean. And the novelist? She ended up in a strait jacket to prevent herself from gouging her eyes out and tearing her skin off after she ate her own lips.

  This was the fate waiting for me if Louise’s tests came back positive. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor? I mean, just the concept: fatal insomnia. It made as much sense as a platypus.

  Except it was no joke.

  Finally, I turned the computer off and wandered over to the observation room to check on the kids. The psychologist had finished her initial interviews, and they’d fallen back asleep. Sleeping like the dead. The irony wasn’t lost on me. I felt strangely numb, removed from the whole situation. After all, what could I do? I still didn’t have an answer.

  Damn, I hated being a patient.

  A soft knock came at the door. Devon Price. Different designer suit but the same wary, weary expression.

  “Figured you’d be here. I need to ask a favor.” He shifted his weight as if his Italian loafers pinched.

  “Sure. What do you need?”

  “Could you take a ride with me?”

  I wasn’t exactly in the mood for company. “Can’t. I have to see what the psychologist learned from these guys. We still don’t know where their families are.”

  He frowned, obviously not accustomed to anyone saying no to him. “You do this for me, and I’ll tell you what you need to know about the kids.”

  “Devon, if you know something—” Anger that he’d use the children as leverage sparked through me.

  He ignored me, staring through the observation window, one hand pressed to the glass, watching the little girl he’d made laugh last night flail in her sleep, until another child reached out to soothe her and pull her back into the fold.

  “Believe me, there’s no rush learning what I know.”

  “Tell me.”

  He sighed and turned to face me. “You’re not going to find their families. They haven’t got any. At least none that can take care of them.”

  That’s what Tyree had said, but I hadn’t believed him. “How do you know that?”

  “The reason why Tyree hid them was to protect them from the man who drugged and raped their mothers.”

  I stared at him then past him to the sleeping children. “The PXA victims, the ones up in Psych—”

  “The ones still alive. I’m guessing there were others and you’ll never find their bodies.”

  It made sense in a warped way. All our victims were single, I couldn’t remember if they were all mothers, but they might have been—we’d had a hard enough time identifying them, plus it wouldn’t have been part of their ER chart whether or not they had children. Maybe in the police files—but Harrison had been in charge of the investigation, and he was dead.

  Suddenly, I wondered if that car accident of his had been an accident after all.

  “Did Tyree tell you who was behind the rapes?” I asked.

  He shoved his hands in his pockets, ruining the lines of his silk suit. “Nothing anyone can use as proof. But maybe, if you come with me—” He let the offer dangle like bait.

  Not like I was going to be much help to the kids, not if what he said was true. With Ryder searching for Esme, there was nothing more I could do for her. “Is this going to help find Esme?”

  “I hope so.” His voice dropped. Low and deadly… with a touch of desperation.

  “Where?”

  “Out to see my mom.”

  I stared at him. “I thought your mom was dead.”

  He shook his head, looking at the ground. For the first time, I realized how young he was. Not even thirty. Funny, last night I would have pegged him as much older. “Not dead. Just gone.”

  “You said she had a heroin overdose—” I remembered him telling me about her last night. But he hadn’t actually said she was dead, had he?

  “Heroin mixed with fentanyl. Persistent vegetative state, the doctors call it. Since I was eight. Once I had some money, I found her a nice place, just outside of town. Real pretty.”

  My stomach lurched as I realized what he was asking. “You want me to—”

  Finally, he met my gaze. All he did was nod.

  I held my breath, fighting my initial impulse to tell him no. Fear knotted my throat. But if it would help find Esme, how could I say no?

  <<<>>>

  Flynn’s adr
enaline reflex was on hyperdrive as she and Esme huddled in the rear corner of the ER’s waiting room. Too many people. Too many eyes.

  At least she had their backs to the wall and, since they’d come in through the main entrance, they didn’t have to go through the ER’s metal detectors, so Flynn still had her gun.

  But she hated feeling this exposed. Anyone could report back to Leo or Tyree or the cops or someone somewhere, and next thing you knew, there’d be bullets flying again.

  Flynn could count the number of people she trusted in this world on one hand. Angela Rossi probably didn’t even remember who Flynn was. Why should she? She saved lives every day. But she was someone Flynn trusted. And she’d been in those tunnels last night, risking her life to help Esme. Who else could Flynn turn to now?

  Esme had fallen asleep, her head cradled in Flynn’s lap, Flynn’s coat wrapped around her, shielding her from prying eyes. Flynn envied the girl. Couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept that good—years. Not since the first night Creepy Wayne, her mom’s boyfriend, crept into her bedroom. She’d been about Esme’s age.

  Wished she’d had the gun way back when. Instead, it had taken four years and her almost dying before she’d found the courage to kill that son of a bitch.

  That was three years ago. But she still saw Creepy Wayne’s bloody face screaming at her every time she closed her eyes.

  Finally, a nurse called the fake name Flynn had given. Flynn carefully cradled Esme, the little girl whimpering in her sleep before curling her body against Flynn’s chest as she threaded her way through the crowded room and through the door.

  The nurse led Flynn and Esme through the maze of tiled corridors that made up Good Sam’s ER. Sounds of a man crying mixed with a toddler’s laughter and a raspy vibration like a drill, the people creating the sounds sequestered behind closed doors and curtains, leaving Flynn’s imagination to fill in the nasty blanks. “Dr. Rossi left already.”

  “I really need to speak with her,” Flynn said in an official tone. The overworked registration clerk hadn’t asked to see any ID or questioned Flynn when she’d identified herself as a social worker caring for a patient from the Advocacy Center. Flynn wasn’t surprised. Despite her youth, few people ever questioned her authority. One of the perks of being reborn in your own image. She didn’t take shit from anyone, and the rest of the world instinctively understood that.

  “Reception said this is another one of Dr. Rossi’s children from the tunnels?” the nurse asked, unlocking a set of doors that led to the Advocacy Center. Flynn didn’t correct her misassumption—not as long as it got her what she wanted. “We’re keeping them safe from the media in here. We can let her sleep with the rest. Dr. Rossi said she’d be back to check on them later today.”

  They stopped outside a large interview room. There was a picture window, its drapes open, revealing a group of kids piled together, sleeping on mattresses covering the floor, a bored-appearing nurse reading in an armchair above them. Flynn shifted Esme’s weight, buying time to process the sight and the nurse’s words. There’d been other kids down there in the tunnels? And somehow Dr. Rossi had found them and was taking care of them?

  Whatever was going on, the Advocacy Center was the last place anyone would be looking for Esme. She’d stay safe for now. Giving Flynn time to figure out how to keep her alive.

  Not to mention how to stop Leo. Daniel expected her to do the impossible, and so far she’d never let him down, but maybe saving Leo was asking too much. All Daniel wanted was to make sure his son was safe before the cancer took him, that the family name and business would be protected. At all costs.

  Except Leo had turned it into this crazy cat-and-mouse game—and she wasn’t sure anymore that she was still the cat. If Leo was the one trying to kill Esme, how could she stop him without betraying Daniel?

  The nurse opened the door, the click of the lock startling Esme awake. The girl struggled in Flynn’s arms until Flynn set her on her feet. She was half-afraid Esme would take off running, but instead, she threw herself at Flynn, wrapping her arms around Flynn’s neck, tight.

  “Can I have a minute?” Flynn asked. She didn’t sound official, not with Esme clutching at her, but the nurse gave a weary smile, as if she was used to seeing her patients break hearts, and entered the room without them.

  They were alone in the hall.

  “Don’t go, don’t go,” Esme cried. “I’m scared.”

  “It’s okay, Esme. You’ll be safe here. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.” She turned Esme around so the girl could look through the window. “Do you recognize any of those kids?”

  “Sure. That’s Andre and Zachariah and Venice. We’re all in Mrs. Anders’ Sunday School class. Why are they here? Did something bad happen to them, too?”

  “I think maybe. But the nurses and doctors here are taking good care of them. And they’ll take care of you until I can get back. Can you remember the name I told you to use?”

  Esme nodded.

  Flynn swallowed hard. It was the name of her real little sister—the one she’d protected by killing Creepy Wayne before he could start messing with her. The one she hadn’t seen in three years. Not since she’d died and been reborn.

  Dr. Rossi had worked a miracle then, bringing a frozen, drowned girl back to life. Flynn would have to trust that she could work another and keep Esme safe.

  “That’s right. Listen, anyone asks, that’s your name and you were in the tunnel and you’re too scared to talk to anyone but me and Dr. Rossi.”

  “Who’s Dr. Rossi?”

  “Did you see the lady in the tunnel who had your dog with her?” Esme nodded. “That’s Dr. Rossi. She’s one of the good guys. If I’m not back—” Meaning if Leo killed her before she could get back. “If I’m not back, you tell Dr. Rossi everything. Your real name and what happened.”

  Esme shook her head. “But the bad police, they’ll come back.”

  Flynn froze. “Bad police?”

  Esme nodded. Slow and steady, like she knew she’d said too much. “They shot my mommy.”

  “Esme. You need to tell me everything.” Flynn crouched down so she was at Esme’s eye level. “It’s really important, okay?”

  Esme considered, then gathered herself and nodded. “Yesterday morning, a man called. He said to tell Uncle Tyree that he wanted his ring back or he’d be paying him a visit.”

  “He called your home, not your uncle’s?”

  “I told Uncle Tyree what the man said, just like he asked, but Uncle Tyree got all upset. It scared me. And Mommy. They were yelling and fighting, and he told her we couldn’t leave the apartment, then slammed out.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “Mommy said she’d had enough of Uncle Tyree, and she called a friend. Guess they weren’t home, because then she called Sister Patrice, but she was at the soup kitchen, and by the time she got there—” Her voice trembled, and she looked down at her feet. “That’s when the bad people came. They—they hurt my mommy and we ran. Sister Patrice told me to hide, to climb up to the metal sidewalk—”

  “The catwalk.”

  “Yes’m, that. But it was too high, I couldn’t reach it, so I stayed on the bookshelves and went as far as I could, away from the door where the bad police would be coming from. But, but they still found me.”

  She was sobbing now but bit her lip, trying to deny her tears. “Are you gonna let the bad police shoot me? Like they did my mommy?” She threw her arms around Flynn, almost knocking Flynn over. “Please don’t let them kill me dead.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Devon drove. A black Town Car, which didn’t seem to suit his personality. Maybe the persona he tried to project, but not the man who had coaxed smiles out of seven traumatized children last night. We headed west, up into the mountains.

  “You never told me. What do you do? For a living?”

  His smile was a slippery one. Fit the car more than the man I’d come to know. “You never asked. I’m in
acquisitions.”

  He was lying to me. I felt disappointed. After all, he knew my biggest secret. “So, you followed in your father’s footsteps.”

  It was cruel. A reminder that I knew his secrets as well. But I didn’t apologize.

  He jerked his head to face me, ignoring the road. I’d seen that look before, on the faces of angry men, ready to do violence.

  “No.” He fired the word like a bullet. “Not like my father. Nothing at all like my father.”

  Another lie. I leaned back in my seat, watching him, waiting.

  “Daniel Kingston raped and tortured innocent women to keep control of his property, turn a profit. That’s not me, not who I am.”

  “Who are you, Devon?”

  He blew his breath out, his frustration circling between us. “I’ve killed men. Self-defense, mainly—guess it depends on how you define it. But that was a long time ago. And they weren’t exactly what you’d call innocent.”

  His voice dropped as if he were in a confessional. “Sometimes, when I do the things I do, people get hurt. And sometimes I do feel good about it.” He slid a glance in my direction, pleading. “That’s not why I hurt them, but sometimes it’s just the only way to get the job done.”

  I knew damn well he was talking about a hell of a lot more than the pain we doctors rationalize inflicting. But I kept remembering how he was last night with those kids, the way he risked his life trying to find Esme. “Sorry. I was wrong.”

  He shook his head as if I’d misunderstood, his attention focused on the road, anywhere but on me. “All my life I’ve spent hating him, dreaming about how I’d kill him when I finally came home. Sometimes, that anger is all that keeps me going. I can’t give it up. It’s an addiction, takes everything I have not to give in to it.”

  “Which is exactly why you’re nothing like your father.”

  He still didn’t believe me. I understood. Some things you have to figure out for yourself, can’t trust someone else to tell you the truth.