While the Savage Sleeps

by Kaufman, Andrew E.

  And that wasn’t all that was bothering him. If Ryan had in fact murdered Alma Gutierrez, he appeared to have no memory of it. Cameron felt certain that was no act: the boy seemed to be as confused as he was, maybe more so.

  Cameron shook his head. Ben was dead, Judith was missing, Ryan was in custody, and the person who killed Witherspoon—whoever that was—seemed as elusive as the facts themselves. That murder seemed to be the missing link, one he had yet to find, one that was still eating away at him.

  In the meantime, there were other things to consider. Susan Swift had second-guessed her own theory about what had happened to Ben. Looking back now, her words seemed to resonate almost prophetically. She’d said she thought there must have been some kind of outside element involved, that Ben could never have done such an awful thing on his own. That seemed to be the central theme in each of the suspects’ lives: good one minute, evil to the core the next.

  But what outside factor? Who–or what–is really in control here?

  Now more than ever, it seemed, Cameron was battling against two increasingly fierce enemies, neither of which he could see or hear: one was whatever was turning good citizens into vicious monsters.

  And the other was time.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  San Mateo Boulevard

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Neither saw it coming: the man they were placing on the gurney pulled out his free hand, grabbed one orderly’s neck, and hit him over the head with the metal restraining device. Then he did the same thing to the other one.

  It all happened in a matter of seconds.

  As the two men lay motionless on the floor, soaked in their own blood, Kyle screamed out, but it did no good; nobody could see or hear her.

  The patient disappeared out the door before anyone in the observation booth could stop him. Almost immediately an alarm sounded, followed by an ear-piercing siren.

  Kyle heard screaming, turned around, and saw chaos everywhere, people running in all directions. Meanwhile, the renegade patient went from room to room releasing occupants, using a key he’d taken from one of the fallen orderlies. Sirens continued to shriek as more patients filed out and even more rushed into the courtyard.

  It was a full-blown riot. People scrambled in every direction; nobody seemed to know where they were going—either out of the way, or just plain out. The ones who didn’t move fast enough fell underfoot, their bodies dropping like scattered bowling pins, only to be trampled upon by merciless feet beating a path behind them—crushing flesh, crushing bones, leaving behind a wide trail of blood.

  Patients were attacking the staff, attacking one another.

  The stampede continued.

  White uniforms turned red with blood, as did the floors, the walls, and anything else falling into the path of chaos.

  Kyle heard more screaming. She spun around and screamed herself when she saw a man grabbing a woman by the neck and then throwing her into a window. The woman slammed into the glass, plunging through, her cries trailing off as she sailed toward the pavement below.

  Kyle recognized her: it was the nurse she’d watched falling in her earlier visions. Now she was seeing that same scene but from a different perspective.

  Then she saw another vision from before, the woman lying on the floor, the one with the halo of blood around her head. The picture began to blur and move again, turning into nothing more than a streaking fog of colors.

  Then Bethany spoke. “Hurry up,” she urged, yet again. “You’re running out of time.”

  “Ma’am? You okay, ma’am?”

  Kyle opened her eyes, confused. The entire sequence had lasted only moments, yet it felt like hours. She focused blearily on the person standing on the other side of her car door, tried to say something, but her throat felt dry and gritty. The horns had stopped now, and all she could hear were distant street noises playing in the background.

  “You okay ma’am?” he repeated.

  “I—I’m —” She looked up at a plaid shirt and a concerned face.

  “It’s okay, just hold still. I’m going to call for help.” He reached for his cell phone.

  “That won’t be necessary,” she managed to say. “I’m fine.”

  The man frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m a doctor,” Kyle said, reaching for her purse, rifling through it. “I have a low blood-sugar problem. That’s all. I got weak and passed out because I hadn’t eaten all day. I was on my way home to get something, but the traffic slowed me down. I assure you, it’s nothing serious.” She raised her wallet to show him her hospital ID.

  He looked it over and then into her eyes with hesitation. “You sure you don’t want me to call an ambulance just to be safe? You look pretty shaken up.”

  “I’m positive. I assure you.” She forced an unconvincing smile, turning the key in the ignition, and leaving the Good Samaritan staring, wondering.

  After she turned the corner, relief began to settle in, and she smiled. Even though she felt like she’d just been to hell and back, Kyle also knew she’d just figured it out.

  She knew what the dreams were about.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Lane’s Barber Shop

  Faith, New Mexico

  When a stranger passed through Faith, people noticed.

  As the morning sun dusted the air with its coppery glow, Lane Smith sat outside his barbershop, drinking coffee and reading the paper. It was his usual routine—that, and keeping tabs on everyone passing in front of him. The old man never missed much.

  So when a plain-looking van came slinking down Main Street, it was no surprise that Lane’s radar went off. He watched covertly as the vehicle stopped and sat for a few minutes, then slid forward several feet before stopping once more. Finally, a man got out, looking around to see if anyone was watching him.

  Lane narrowed his eyes and widened his interest.

  The man reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pen and pad, and began writing. Just then, Betty Greenway came walking out of the nail salon and unknowingly headed directly toward the stranger. He looked up, caught her eyes, and nodded once, but she seemed to want to get by him as quickly as possible. Once she left his line of vision, the man continued writing for a moment, looked around, then hurried back into the van. After that, once more, it proceeded down the street. Slowly.

  All under the watchful eye of Lane Smith.

  He lifted his head just high enough to peer over the top of his newspaper, catching it as it went by, studying it carefully. Lane could barely see inside, but it was clear that neither the men nor the van were from anywhere around Faith.

  Lane didn’t waste any time in calling Cameron.

  “You’re overdue for a cut,” he complained to the assistant sheriff.

  “Too much going on right now,” Cameron responded. The last thing on his mind was a haircut. “How ’bout next week?”

  “Won’t take too much of your time,” the old barber said, casually. “Bring that mop of yours in here … say, about fifteen minutes? Be my first cut of the day. Then ya got all day to get back to your work.”

  Cameron looked at his watch, trying to contain his annoyance. “Like I said, Lane, I’ve got a few things going on right–”

  “All righty, then. So I’ll see you in a few,” Lane shot back, then quickly hung up.

  Cameron stared at the telephone receiver, shook his head. Then he buzzed Betty Sinclair, the department’s receptionist and dispatcher.

  “Looks like I’ll be getting my hair cut in about fifteen minutes,” he told her, “whether I like it or not.”

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Lane’s Barber Shop

  Faith, New Mexico

  Cameron had practically grown up inside Lane’s Barber Shop.

  He’d started out sitting on a wooden booster seat, and could still remember the day he came in and no longer needed it. For him, it felt like a major milestone.

  Now, as an adult, Cameron sat in the same chair, thoug
h these days, it was a little worse for wear; the leather seat-cushion was cracking in spots, the metal tarnished. Not that it mattered. For him, that chair was a part of history—the town’s, and his own.

  The smell of hair tonic and shaving cream swirled through the warm, moist air while Lane cut Cameron’s hair. The pleasing aroma always evoked happy memories for the sheriff, times when haircuts meant special occasions: first days of school, birthdays, and Easter.

  Cameron found himself enjoying the moment once again, not because of the memories, or even the pleasant smells, but instead, because he felt lost in the long-overdue calm surrounding him while Lane cut his hair. The repetitious and rhythmic sound of snapping of scissors had a soothing effect, and Cameron closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax, if only for a few minutes.

  Then Lane broke the mood.

  “So how’s your parents doing?” he asked, giving the chair a half-turn and throwing Cameron from his momentary refuge. “Haven’t heard anything from them in a while.”

  “Doing okay.” Cameron said. He looked up into the mirror and made eye contact with Lane. “Still out in Arizona—still enjoying retirement, I guess. Haven’t gone out to visit in awhile. Get there when I can, but the way things have been going lately … well, you know…”

  “Yeah, I hear ya. Well tell ’em I miss seein’ their mugs around here,” Lane said. He was a large man; the exterior was hard, but the heart beneath was soft.

  A long pause followed, filled by the sound of scissors slicing through hair. “You know,” Lane finally said, “saw something this morning that didn’t look right to me.”

  “Yeah? What’s that?”

  “’bout eight this morning. A van. Coming through town. Looked like it didn’t have no business being here.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Well, for one, it was drivin’ right up against the curb, slower‘n a slug in a hurry,” Lane said, combing Cameron’s bangs forward in broad strokes. “Seemed to me they was lookin’ for something.”

  Cameron squinted as short bristles of cut hair fluttered down past his eyes and nose. “Catch who was inside?”

  “One of ‘em got out. Looked shifty as all hell, if you ask me, like he was fixin’ to do something he wadn’t supposed to.”

  “In what way?”

  “Dunno … lookin’ all over the place … makin’ sure nobody was watchin’. Stood there for a spell, writin’ something. Then Betty Greenway come walkin’ by, and he gets all skittish. Runs back into the van and takes off again. Really strange—know what I mean?”

  “Sure,” Cameron replied, considering Lane’s account. “And the other?”

  “A guy. Couldn’t see him too good. He was the driver.”

  “Happen to get a make or model on the van?”

  Lane stopped and gazed out the window for a moment, as if watching the whole thing all over again, then went back to cutting. “Older. Not one of them minivans you see all the time. A white-colored Ford … Econoline … yeah, that’s what it was. Plain as could be, almost like it was tryin’ too hard to look that way.”

  Cameron stared out the window. “What about the plates? Get a good look at ‘em?”

  Lane pulled a thatch of blond hair straight up with his comb, snipped across, then let it fall back into place. “New Mexico. Couldn’t see the numbers though. Eyes ain’t what they used to be. But they was both wearin’ sunglasses—that much I remember. Anyway, whole thing wadn’t right.”

  “Looked out of place,” Cameron said.

  “Like a nun in a whorehouse.”

  Cameron let out a half-laugh without sound. “I’ll check around town to see if anyone else saw them.”

  “Yeah. Do that. Just a thought … but check with Georgia up the street at the bakery. She keeps a steady eye on things, almost like it’s her second job.” The barber leaned in toward Cameron, cupping his hand beside his mouth as if telling a secret, spoke softly. “A real busybody.”

  Cameron resisted the urge to laugh. Lane was every bit as much a busybody as Georgia, just more subtle in his technique.

  With one foot, Lane pumped the chair up a level or two, then leaned forward so he and Cameron were almost eye-to-eye. He studied his work, bobbing his head back and forth, making sure the sideburns looked even.

  When he was done, the barber removed the plastic tarp, folding it away, careful not to dump hair on Cameron’s clothes. Then he handed him the mirror to inspect his haircut.

  Cameron held the mirror up, moved his head from side to side. “Nice job, as usual, Lane.”

  “Ahh,” the barber shot back, dismissing the comment with the wave of a hand. “You’re easy. I could cut your hair blindfolded. Been doing it since you were, what—about three?”

  “Something like that,” Cameron said.

  “Can still remember the first day you came walkin’ in here, almost like it was yesterday.” Lane laughed. “Actually, running was more like it—all excited to get your first haircut, scurrying across the floor like a mouse on a mission. Was a good two or so minutes before your mother come hurryin’ in after you—frantic—thought she lost you. Of course, by then, you’d already climbed up into the chair, hands on both armrests, all ready to go.”

  Cameron smiled, looked down at the floor, a little embarrassed. “Bet you’ve got a story for just about everyone in this town.”

  “Not everyone … but most.” He paused, studied Cameron’s face. “You doing okay, kid? Don’t mind tellin’ ya, you’re looking a bit on the dog-eared side.’’

  Cameron pulled a bill from his wallet and held it out to the barber. “Yeah, fine. Just real busy, is all.”

  Lane nodded, looking at Cameron’s hand. “You can just put that right back where it came from. Your money’s no good here. Haircut’s on me.”

  Cameron put the bill away. He knew the routine. “Thanks, Lane.”

  “Think nothin’ of it, son. Pleasure’s mine. Take care of yourself now, ya hear me?”

  “I’ll try,” Cameron said, heading toward the door.

  Just before he was out of sight, Lane shouted to him. “Hey. One more thing.”

  Cameron turned around and glanced back at him.

  “Almost forgot. For what it’s worth, the guy taking the notes—he was standing in front of Hedrick’s shop … and lookin’ inside the window.”

  Chapter Fifty-Eight

  Abrams Medical Center

  Albuquerque, New Mexico

  Kyle sat in her office, trying to regain some of her strength. While excited about the new information, the roadside horror show of the night before had taken more energy than she cared to admit.

  Several things seemed almost certain now: somewhere in this country, around World War II, there was a hospital, one where horrific events had taken place. People were seriously injured, some even killed. In one scenario, a riot broke out after a patient got loose, bringing casualties to the staff as well as to other patients.

  In addition, many of her earlier visions had come back for a repeat performance, only now they made sense. That nurse, the one she’d seen lying on the blood-smeared floor, had died during the riot, after the crowd of people trampled over her.

  As for the falling woman, Kyle now knew that somebody had pushed her through that window. Somebody had killed her.

  But she had yet to figure out where this hospital was. From her research, it appeared to have something to do with the U.S. Army, but beyond that, she was unclear.

  One thing she definitely did know. Seeing that bloody match between the two men—the way the staff just stood there and watched—it wasn’t only neglectful, it was downright immoral. They seemed so unaffected by it, bored, even.

  What would make a human so indifferent to another’s suffering? Kyle had to wonder if it was some form of punishment, or maybe, she thought, something else, some kind of twisted, morbid game they were playing—except nobody seemed to be having much fun.

  In addition, the biggest mystery of all was earning it
s reputation as such, while doing an even better job of getting under Kyle’s skin: she still couldn’t figure out what Bethany had to do with all this. There seemed to be no connection between her and the events Kyle saw.

  In spite of all this, Kyle was still feeling much better as she moved closer toward the answers she needed. She just hoped her body would hold up long enough for her to get there. All that energy flowing through her had taken its toll, turning sleeping and eating more into luxuries than necessities. All that, and she also had her private practice to worry about; still, she couldn’t let go. Not now. Not when things were finally starting to come together.

  Hardly a time to relax, Kyle thought. On the contrary—if anything, it was time to start getting busy.

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  Sheriff’s Station

  Faith, New Mexico

  As recommended, Cameron checked with Georgia Simpson at Peak’s Bakery to see if she had spotted any unusual vehicles moving through town. As it turned out, she’d seen plenty, but nothing of any use to Cameron.

  On the other side of town, Della Schumacher, the one-woman neighborhood watch program, ended up being more help to Cameron than he ever could have imagined. Still dismayed over the loss of her beloved cat, and fearful of Faith becoming a new hotbed of homicidal activity, Della decided to make it her job to keep a vigilant watch over everything within a hundred-foot radius of her house. Even more so than usual.

  Along with keeping her eye on things, Della also made a point of calling Cameron several times throughout the day and updating him with what she considered to be suspicious activity. To Cameron, it sounded like a whole lot of nothing—other than her neurosis working overtime.

  Before he knew it, his phone was ringing late into the night, with more reports of odd occurrences, or at least what she considered as such.