As Poe hobbled off, Y gripped his arm. About to speak, the old man opened his mouth, but no sounds came out. He clutched his shirt, then began to fall backward. Poe caught him before he hit the ground and carried him under the shade of a tree. Poe reached inside Y's pocket and pulled out a nitro capsule. He broke it open and held it under the old man's nose. Wiping Y's clammy face, Poe spent a few tense moments waiting for the medicine to kick in.
It seemed like hours. But, in fact, color quickly began to return to Y's cheeks.
"I'm all right," the old man said between gasps for air.
"Just relax."
"How's your nose?"
"My nose is fine."
"Broken?"
"Just bloodied. You're too old to do real damage."
Y managed a sick smile. Then the corners of his mouth turned down. As his eyes watered, he looked the other way.
Poe spoke softly. "Y, you know the suicide note that you said was planted? It wasn't."
Y didn't answer.
"It was her handwriting," Poe said. "She wrote the note. I'm sure of it."
"So what? He made her write the note! He probably had a gun to her head!"
"No, Y, I don't think so." Poe wiped the old man's brow. "I think you're right about certain things. I think that Lewiston did go to her hotel room that night. And he probably did beat her up. Probably because he wanted to scare her into silence. But the beating wasn't what did her in. According to the coroner's report, she died of self-inflicted knife wounds to her wrists. And I believe the report."
Again, Y gazed outward at nothing.
Poe said, "She took herself out slowly. She was punishing herself, Y, trying to attain…absolution or something." He took a deep breath. "Linda died because she had an attack of real conscience. She felt horribly guilty about what she'd done. Which is more than I can say about Honey Kramer."
Y looked at Poe questioningly.
"Same thing twenty-five years ago, Chief. An unknown mutilator/murderer called the Bogeyman took out a local girl named Janet Doward. The murder gave Parker Lewiston some mighty black ideas. I think Lewiston copycatted the Bogeyman and killed his own unknown chickie—a kid who, like Sarah Yarlborough, died with grass under her fingernails. She was found by Linda Hennick, but paid for by Lewiston."
Y looked away.
"I believe that Linda, like Honey, had pimped for him—found him young playthings. And probably there are other women in between Linda and Honey who also pimped for Lewiston. And who's to say there aren't murders in between that I don't know about. What can I say, old man? Lewiston is in a rut."
No one spoke.
Then Y said, "Romulus, you told me you only found one Bogeyman case in your back files."
Poe said, "Y, this is where your song and dance about Lewiston paying people off carries weight. No doubt Parkerboy paid people off to quash the investigation. Hell, if he tried to bribe me—a police officer—I'm sure he'd have no qualms about paying off a petty bureaucrat to misfile a simple case. After all, the Jane Doe was an unidentified drifter."
Y said, "Lewiston tried to bribe you?"
"Offered me money to forget his sending out his goons. Same thing." Poe paused and licked his lips. "You know what, old man? I would never have known about that second case except for you. You were the one who told me that there were two cases accredited to the Bogeyman. You and Alison. And I believed you both, Y. So I kept looking for a second file…looking until I eventually found something."
No one spoke.
Then Poe said, "Linda Hennick brought Jane Doe to Lewiston because she was a nothing, like Sarah Yarlborough. He sent out his love-starved, aging whores to find throwaways for him. And that was Linda Hennick to a T—a once beautiful but quickly aging love-starved woman who had been forced to settle for Gerald Hennick."
A pause.
"Because the man Linda wanted had married someone else. And after Linda became pregnant by Mr. Married Gigolo, she had to take what she could get."
"Your father," Y said.
Poe focused his eyes on the old man's face. "You knew all along, didn't you?"
"You're not the only wiseass with an ace up his sleeve."
"Did you know when Alison and I were going together?"
"I had suspicions."
"So you stood on the sidelines while I screwed my half sister."
"I said I had my suspicions. I didn't say I was sure!" He grunted. "Besides, you weren't complaining."
Poe buried his head in his hands. When he lifted his face, he noticed his hands were all bloodied. He wiped his palms and nose with a handkerchief.
Y said, "You'd better be careful, Poe. Insanity is often inherited from your parents. And like you said a few minutes ago…" The old man's smile became wicked. "Linda Hennick wasn't crazy. So what does that say about your old man if he was Alison's father?"
"I'm quaking with terror."
But deep inside, Poe was uneasy.
What did it say?
The old man grumbled, "Help me up."
"Why should I help you?" Poe grumped. "You're an old, mean bastard."
"Romulus, I'm a survivor." Gently, Y slapped Poe's face. "Like someone else I know."
FIFTY-TWO
THE SAME damn recurring dream. By now Poe knew it by heart.
As the sun blasted on the bleak ground, microbes began to appear on the surface of the recently subsided crater. They were pinpoint, teeny things that wriggled and squiggled and scampered over the sand's surface, weighing next to nothing.
They made Poe itch. He scratched in his sleep.
It was the first time the bugs had seen sunlight. Within moments of hitting air, long-dormant nuclear bodies began to waken as the mites moved away from their anaerobic state into the aerobic process of converting oxygenated air into energy.
They skittered across the desert floor to firmer ground. Once they were planted on stable soil, they started to coalesce into a blob—shapeless, formless, unrecognizable as anything. Soon more bugs joined the biological soup, until it started to thicken in dimension. The gloop elongated upward, grew toward the sky as if it were heliotropic. As if a sculptor were working magic, the clump lengthened into something around two or three feet tall and five feet wide.
Poe's eyes jerked spasmodically under his lids as he tried to follow the motion.
The protoplasm cinched around the front part to form a grotesque neck and head—embryonic in nature, with a mouth too wide and ears too low-set. But then the form refined itself until small red eyes appeared, deep-set into bony orbs. Minutes later came a long, hairy snout that held sharp teeth. Then pointed ears covered with red fur.
He started trembling—looking at the same monstrous face he had seen at NTS.
Cellular divisions down below. The blob forming dense leg bones, then the musculature—thick haunches that were strong and developed. Outpouchings off the ends of the bones turned into paws that elongated and grew nails as keen as razors. Eventually hair covered the entire beast.
His heart pounding as he slept fitfully. Aware that he was dreaming, but unable to rouse himself to wakefulness.
The coyote shook out its fur like a wet dog.
Usually the dream ended here. But this time, the coyote looked him squarely in the eye. Then it opened its mouth and sound poured forth. Something about returning to him, that they were eternally linked, bound by love and blood. But for now, it had work to do in a city filled with angels.
Then the vision faded.
As usual, he woke up filled with dread, confused and disoriented. He forced himself to open his eyes.
The moonlight pierced through the open windows as the crickets chattered, clicked, and hissed. Naked and coated with sweat, he lay on his side atop his foldout couch, staring at the shadow of his kitchen, listening to the hum from his batteryoperated fan as it pushed hot air from one side to the other. Every few seconds, he felt the relief of a passing breeze only to have it snatched away, leaving him mired in sluggishness.
Slowly, groggily, he wiped sweat and fear from his brow.
The usual routine, Poe. Talk it out, talk it out.
You're not crazy.
It's just a dream, it's just a dream.
Everything is going to be okay.
And he had logical reasons for believing that.
Because things had returned to their former states. Life had taken on a routine buzz. Jensen had been restored to the force, transferred out of Homicide and into GTA. They hadn't spoken much, but Poe had heard he was doing well.
That's good. See, even Jensen is doing okay.
You'll be okay, too.
And then there was Patricia. The brass had wanted to transfer her, but Poe had insisted on keeping Deluca in Homicide. She had been grateful, announcing that she'd prove him right. He had taken her out to dinner about a week ago to talk about that night…to make sense of it all.
At first, they spoke about physical, indisputable things. About Deluca's Saturn hidden in one of the many caves surrounding the city proper. Once it was in impound, Poe had searched the car and had found a needle and syringe that contained traces of some kind of knockout drug used by Alison to control Patricia.
But how Alison had been able to get the needle into Patricia was anyone's guess. Even Patricia had no idea, remembered almost nothing until she had reawakened inside Alison's Explorer.
Between you and me, Patricia, do you remember anything that happened before you woke up, tied up in her car?
Patricia thought about the question a long time. She had become very uneasy in his presence.
I saw this big bird, sir. Like a hawk or an eagle swooping down on me. It must have knocked me down. A pause. It must have knocked me out.
A big bird? Poe questioned.
A real big one, yes, sir.
Like as big as a person?
Excuse me, Sergeant?
Was the bird as big as a person? Say…as big as Alison?
I don't think so, sir. Squirm, squirm. But…but it was big.
And you don't remember seeing anyone else?
It was getting dark. I don't remember seeing anyone.
Alison was nowhere in sight?
I don't remember seeing her. But that doesn't mean she wasn't there. Obviously she was. Patricia laughed. She couldn't have come out of thin air.
Of course not. Poe continued to press her. Tell me about the feathered Indian headdress.
Alison had this headdress in her car. She said something about me liking her bird bit, but I don't know what she meant.
Poe thought about the feathers he had pulled out of the sinkhole. Lots of feathers, more than would have been found in a headdress.
Patricia still talking…. rambling, sir. Just talking nonsense. But real scary stuff. I'd only say this to you…because you went through the same thing. But she was truly terrifying. I've never been more frightened in my life.
I understand.
Then she switched the subject. Poe relented, listening to her talk about her current cases. When she spoke about them, her face took on an animated glow. Excitedly, she started her sentences with Oh, let me tell you about this one. Or You won't believe this!
Whatever Patricia had seen, it hadn't freaked her out…not like him, anyway.
Or maybe it had and she just wasn't talking.
Poe stared at the fuzzy outlines of the items on top of his kitchen counter—a basin which contained soaking dishes, this morning's newspaper, a mug, a twelve-ounce bottle of sparkling water, a few pieces of loose paper…maybe a pencil. Licking his chapped lips, he realized he'd become very thirsty. His throat begged his legs to get up and fetch that water, but the rest of his body was too bogged down in torpor.
He closed his eyes. A big mistake. The dream's image visited him, this time stronger than ever, with a face detailed in its clarity. Again it spoke to him, though this time he couldn't understand her words. Still, he answered her back.
"Alison, you fiendish waif," he whispered. "Did you know all along about your mother and my father?"
He sighed.
Poe's father had always been a mystery to him. And he would probably remain an enigma. Certainly he wasn't going to broach the subject with Emma. She had just finished her last bout of chemotherapy back in Reno, back with Remus where she belonged. The therapy had been pronounced a great success, and the doctors had cheerfully announced that she was in full remission. Poe had promised to visit this weekend, but Dad would not be a topic of conversation. Some stones were better left unturned.
It was easier for Poe to think about quenching his thirst. So he thought about that cool water, about moving his legs, getting up, and pouring the clear liquid down that parched throat of his.
His mouth tasted like sandpaper—gritty, dry, and hot. If he didn't drink something soon, his tongue would start flaking off. He stared at the evil sparkling water bottle a few yards from his grasp. He stretched his hand out.
C'mon, you little sucker. Just grow some legs and walk over to Papa.
At once, the house jerked and the bottle bulleted across the room and landed smack in the palm of his hand, his fingers encircling the glass. Poe was so startled he opened his grip and the bottle dropped to the floor with a clunk. Water started spilling out as he bolted up from the bed, bent down, and snatched the bottle from the floor.
His heart was hammering in his chest, his knees felt weak, and his head was sparkles of light. He had to sit down, drop his head between his knees.
He screamed out, "Alison!"
His response was the echo of his own voice.
Get a grip on it, Poe, get a grip on it!
Naked and clammy, he realized he was rocking like an abused child.
Stand up, you idiot!
He forced himself to stand on shaky legs. Slowly, he downed the remaining contents of the water bottle, then put on a pair of scrub pants, slipped a tank top over his head.
The house had jerked. Earthquake. Not uncommon here. Made the bottle fly. That was it, that was it.
With shaky hands, he reached for his cigarettes and stuck a smoke between his lips. Hunting for matches. Where were the damn matches? Probably on the counter. He snapped his fingers, but the matches didn't move.
He wiggled his fingers and said, "Fly to me, matches. Fly to me, fly to me."
Nothing happened.
Poe rolled his eyes, retrieved the matches, and sat down on the edge of his mattress. Lighting the cigarette, he inhaled deeply, letting smoke drift out of his nose and mouth.
What a relief!
He was imagining things. Just like that night. All in his head.
Or so they told him.
He stood up, went to his cooler, and downed a beer in one gulp.
A dream, Poe, simply a dream.
But deep down…in his heart…he knew that tonight wasn't a dream. Alison had appeared to him. And Patricia's ambiguity, coupled with her failure to find any rational explanation for her kidnapping, made it even clearer.
He hadn't imagined a damn thing, either then or now.
What Poe had witnessed at NTS—Alison's transformation from human to animal—had been real! And no one would ever convince him otherwise.
Of course, he'd never be able to convince anyone else otherwise, as well. They'd say things like…that his mind was playing tricks because he had been under such duress, that he was…imagining things!
Just like the water bottle flying mysteriously into his hand.
I know what I saw.
He was trembling now: uncontrollable spasms of his hands, arms, and legs. He couldn't move without shaking.
Alison, Alison, Alison.
What were you doing to me out there? Were you trying to kill me? Or were you trying to transfer your powers to me by biting me?
What powers?
Y's prescient words: Insanity is often inherited. And like you said…Linda Hennick wasn't crazy.
Going nuts, Poe, are you?
But that water bottle hadn't fallen off th
e counter. It had flown into his palm.
And Lewiston had tripped when Poe willed it. Both he and Rukmani had seen it.
Just pretend it never happened, Rom old boy.
Just don't try to move things by mental telepathy and you'll be just fine.
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