The Edge of Sleep jb-3

by David Wiltse

  “Feminine secret,” she said.

  “Terrific.”

  “Okay. I have a child’s toothbrush, too. I use it to brush my eyebrows sometimes.”

  “You do?”

  “You men have no idea what we go through, do you? I put hair spray on the brush, then sort of comb them up so they don’t go every which way.”

  Becker stared at her., Karen moved uneasily behind the wheel.

  “Some-times,” she said. “Only some-times.”

  Becker continued to look at her, exaggerating his bafflement.

  “Stop it,” she said sternly, after a moment. “So I think, in the absence of any other evidence, we can forget the toothbrush.”

  “I’ll have to take your word for it,” Becker said.

  “We had to do it, though, right?” Karen said.

  “Oh, sure, we had to check it out. And it wasn’t a total waste of time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, Jack gained an admirer.”

  “Great.”

  “And it got me thinking.”

  “You found that visit intellectually stimulating?”

  “Well, it didn’t make me start thinking about the Great Books. But the woman’s nurse uniform did make me remember something. After the Bickford snatch I stood in on a couple of interviews. One of them was with a guy who made doughnuts. He said he had seen the outing of kids when they came to the mall.”

  “Yeah?”

  “He said-I think he said-he saw the teachers, he saw the kids, he saw the school nurse. Did he say she was bringing up the rear? I don’t remember, but I think so. I have that image in my head.”

  “Yes, so?”

  “So does a uniformed nurse usually go along on every school outing?”

  “I don’t know. It seems like a good idea.”

  “It does. But does it happen?… Jack? When your class takes a trip, does the school nurse usually go along? Does she wear a uniform?”

  Jack hesitated long enough for Karen to speak impatiently. “Jack, John asked you a question.”

  “I don’t think I’ve even seen her in it,” Jack said thoughtfully.

  “You mean you’ve never seen her on an outing?”

  “Oh, she doesn’t go on those. Because what if someone at school gets sick? But I don’t think I’ve ever seen her in her uniform. She just wears clothes at school.”

  Karen and Becker drove in silence for a moment, both thinking. Karen broke the silence as she reached for the phone.

  “Of course that’s just Jack’s school.” Karen said, punching in the phone numbers. “They might do it differently at other schools.”

  “Or a nurse just happened to be going in the same direction,” Becker said.

  “Just a coincidence,” Karen said.

  “Most likely.”

  “Probably… Malva? Deputy Director Crist. I’m in my car. One, check with the principal of Bobby Reynolds’s school. See if a uniformed nurse went along on the outing to the mall on the day Bobby was”-she glanced back at Jack-“when he went on the outing. Two, have Hemmings go through all the interview notes of the other Lamont cases and see if there are any mentions of nurses.”

  Karen paused, looked at Becker, and arched an eyebrow.

  “Do the malls have their own nurses?” Becker asked.

  “And Malva, find out if the malls in question have uniformed nurses on duty… That’s right. I’ll be in the car until around six. I want answers before then… Thank you.”

  “Let’s not get excited yet,” Becker said as Karen returned the phone to its cradle. “A, there are virtually no cases of women being involved in serial killings except the one in Florida. B, a woman could not have disposed of the bodies from a moving car with one hand.”

  “That would require a man with great strength.”

  “Or… Christ, or two people. One driving, the other sitting in the backseat and using both hands. What’s wrong with that?”

  “Two people. Serials don’t work in teams, they’re loners.”

  “Although the Hillside Strangler was actually two people.”

  “And Braun and Rosenbloom committed those atrocities in New Haven.”

  “Yeah, for years.”

  “You had something to do with that case, didn’t you?”

  “Not enough… So, it does happen.”

  “Not often, but it happens… but never with a mixed couple, that I know of.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be mixed. Sitting in the backseat, using two arms to lift. A woman could do that.”

  “Two women?”

  “Why not? Just because we’ve never seen it?”

  “The woman in Florida, she had another woman with her part of the time.”

  Becker took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  “How much did you talk to that big guy in the motel?” he asked.

  “Hardly at all.”

  “And why?”

  “Because… I’m stupid, I guess.”

  “No, you’re not stupid, Karen. Why didn’t you talk to him? Really.”

  “Because once a woman entered the picture, there didn’t seem to be any point.”

  “Why no point?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “Why no point in interviewing him?”

  “Because a man and woman together didn’t match our profile.”

  “And who gave us the profile?”

  Karen paused.

  “It’s not your fault, John.”

  “Who came up with that profile?”

  “Lots of us, all of us. It was a consensus long before you entered the case. This kind of thing is done by male loners…”

  “Who went out driving on the Merritt tossing bags out the window? Who convinced us all that it was, that it had to be a strong man, so we all stopped looking at or even considering anything else? Who was that genius, Karen?”

  “John, we all agreed. I agreed. I’m still in charge of this case. If anything stupid was done, it’s my responsibility.”

  “Your responsibility, maybe. My fault.”

  “Nobody’s fault. And you were probably right. It probably is a lone male. Nothing has happened to change that.” Becker was silent.

  “At least wait until we hear back from Malva before you beat up on yourself. There will be plenty of time for self-recrimination for all of us.”

  “After we get Jack installed at camp…”

  “Of course.”

  “We could just swing by the motel again…”

  “It’s on the way,” she said. “Do you have something specific in mind?”

  “I’m going to ask that big guy for help in pulling my head out of my ass. I got it jammed up there so far this time I don’t think I can get it out by myself.” Becker glanced at Jack, then at Karen. “Sorry for the anatomical reference,” he said.

  “What, because of Jack? He likes it. He thinks you’re clever.”

  Becker turned and looked at the boy in the backseat. Jack was grinning behind his hand.

  “Face it, Becker,” Karen said. “You’re a natural-born father figure.”

  “Every kid needs one,” Becker said. “Whether he needs it or not.”

  “Oh, look,” Karen exclaimed suddenly. “Look, Jack. There’s your mountain.”

  Mt. Jefferson loomed abruptly alongside them, a sudden bulging disturbance in the landscape. Like most mountains in Massachusetts, Mt. Jefferson stopped ascending well short of the tree line, and to the jaundiced eye accustomed to snow-topped Alps or Rockies it presented the aspect of an ambitious hill. To Jack, it seemed enormous.

  “Your own mountain,” Becker said. “How about that?”

  “Are you looking. Jack? Do you see it?”

  “I see it,” Jack said. He wanted to add a note of impudence, telling his mother that he wasn’t blind, but his throat was constricting and he found it easier not to say anything.

  “You’re going to love it there,” Karen said. “It looks so fresh and clean, does
n’t it?”

  Becker, his eye on Jack as much as the mountain, had noted the boy’s rising discomfort. It was going to be a tearful parting. Becker looked back at the mountain, giving it his full attention to keep from tearing up himself. The chord Jack touched in him surprised him. When did I get like this? he wondered. He glanced at Karen to see if she had noticed how choked up he’d gotten, but if she had, she was tactfully keeping it to herself. Her attention was also exaggeratedly fixed outside the window.

  All three of them stared at the mountain, keeping their thoughts to themselves, as they drove parallel to it for several miles, then began the slow and winding ascent to the camp.

  Chapter 18

  Ash was surprised at how well Dee was responding to the loss of Tommy. Usually by now she would be inconsolably sad, sinking even deeper into mourning until she was immobilized by her grief. It was normally his task to carry both of them into the car, first the garbage bag, then Dee, who would slump in his arms as inertly as the boy’s corpse. But this time she helped Ash pack, helped check the room to make sure they had left nothing behind. It was Dee who emptied the bathroom wastebasket into a paper bag for disposal later. Dee who double-checked the drawers and under the bed to be sure nothing was left behind. It was Dee who decided to leave immediately, not waiting for dark as they usually did. And it was Dee who drove the car and waited while Ash retrieved the bag from the roadside ditch where he had stashed it, whereas before she was always a crumpled heap on the backseat,

  This time Ash sat in back, the trash bag cradled on his lap. It was all different, and Ash did not feel comfortable with the change. It confused him, as any deviation from routine did, but it also deprived him of his chance to take care of Dee. She needed him only when she grieved, and then she needed him completely; he became her food and shelter. It was always a frightening time for Ash, but he liked himself in the role of provider and protector. He liked being able to care for Dee the way she cared for him the rest of the time.

  But this time Dee was still very much in command, although she was far more subdued than usual. She seemed to Ash to be angry rather than sad, but for once hers was a controlled anger, nothing like the sudden rages with which she was sometimes overcome. This one had the look of a passion that would not bum out in a flash, but would simmer and sustain itself below the level of fury. It looked as if it would last a long time and Ash was frightened by it.

  Dee drove with the map open on the steering wheel, weaving slightly as her focus moved back and forth from map to road. Whatever she was looking for was hard to find. She pulled the car off the highway and into a rest stop and glared at the map for a moment in silence. “Ha!” she cried exultantly. “Got the bitch.”

  “What?”

  “I know where she took him.”

  “Who?”

  “My boy,” she said, as if it were obvious. “My beautiful, precious, perfect little boy.”

  Ash looked down at the trash bag on his lap. He could feel the weight of the body pressing into his thighs.

  “Get rid of that,” Dee said. She waited until a van filled with teenagers pulled back onto the highway, leaving them alone at the rest area, then told Ash to get out of the car.

  Ash carried the trash bag into the trees that separated the highway from the adjoining town. Through the leaves he could just make out the shape of a house fifty yards away. A dog barked in the distance. Ash hoped the dog would not disturb the bag. He laid it down, then tried to cover it with fallen twigs and dead leaves, but the leaves and twigs slid off the smooth plastic. Ash always wished he could say something; he knew a prayer of some kind was in order, but he didn’t know how to do it. He stood over the bag for a moment, looking around nervously, trying to muster a feeling of solemnity, but nothing came to him except the urge to say goodbye. He bent over and patted the form within the bag. It was now as rigid as rock.

  When he returned to the car. Dee was talking to herself, muttering in a low, menacing tone.

  “Officious bitch… come into my home, asking questions… always questions, as if I don’t know how… as if I’m not good enough

  … only they know how to do it, only their way is any good…”

  Ash slid into the passenger’s seat and snapped on his seat belt. Usually Dee would never start the car until he was safely buckled in, but this time the engine was already idling and in gear before Ash had even leaned back in his seat. They were easing into traffic before the next car pulled into the rest area.

  Karen was too quiet for the first several miles after they left Jack at camp. They had all weathered the initial hectic minutes bravely enough, getting Jack registered, installing him in his cabin, and introducing him to his counselors and the other two bewildered boys who had already arrived in the cabin. They had then walked him down the long hill to the lake where Jack was to have a swimming test that would determine his level of ability. It seemed to Becker to be a cruel and abrupt way to begin the two weeks, being plunged into a test situation before the kids even knew the layout of the camp, but on the other hand it gave them something to worry about besides separation from their parents.

  Jack revealed his nerves only by taking both Karen’s and Becker’s hands as they walked the rutted dirt path to the lake. As the boy’s slim fingers slipped tentatively into his palm, Becker felt a surge of emotion so profound that he nearly yelled aloud with the shock. Karen noticed the sudden change in his demeanor and glanced at him speculatively. She saw him smiling in an unfamiliar, almost goofy way, but when she questioned him with her eyes he merely kept on smiling. After weeks of seeing the boy daily, after sessions of roughhousing, storytelling, even a brief bout of counseling on how best to get along with his mother, it was the first time that Jack had voluntarily reached out to touch Becker. The hand in his seemed so small, so vulnerable, that Becker did not want to let it go. For the moment, he felt so wildly protective that he could not conceive of letting Jack go off on his own into a world as fraught with danger as summer camp. He wanted to bundle the boy in his arms and carry him back to the safety of the car. He wanted to take the swimming test for him, he wanted to speak to each of the counselors to make sure they understood what a rare and excellent child they had with them, he wanted to corral all of the kids and threaten them with dire punishment if they ever spoke harshly to the boy, insulted him, excluded him. He felt, in brief, like a parent, and it was a hugely strange and disorienting emotion that seemed to balloon outward from his center to encompass and swallow everyone and everything around him.

  As Becker looked at Karen, holding Jack’s other hand, the warm glow he felt expanded to include her. He not only loved this little boy; by extension, he also loved the mother. More than loved her. He felt toward her the same protective urge he felt toward Jack. He would marry her, they would raise the child together, and Becker would shield both of them from the world’s perils, great and small.

  Becker gazed at Karen over the boy’s head. She looked back with a sour, pained expression.

  As Jack released their hands and stepped up to the swimming counselor, frightened but eager to have the ordeal behind him, Becker was overwhelmed by the boy’s courage.

  Becker put an arm possessively around Karen’s waist.

  “Can he swim?”

  Karen pretended to shift her weight and twisted, slipping away from Becker’s arm.

  “Not well. He’s afraid of the water.”

  Becker heard the nervousness in her voice.

  “I can teach him,” he said.

  “I’ll teach him,” she snapped, then tempered the remark by adding, “or they’ll teach him here… They’re professionals.”

  Jack stood at the end of the dock, his little face turned attentively to the counselor, listening to his instructions. He looked to Becker like a midget warrior being sent into battle.

  “He’s brave. I couldn’t be that brave,” Becker said.

  Karen gave him a puzzled look.

  Jack turned from the counselor, took
one look at the water and dived in, arms and legs flailing, landing on his stomach, his head and face arched backwards as if they could somehow avoid contact with the lake.

  Becker gripped Karen’s arm and they watched, both holding their breath, as Jack struggled across the roped-off area enclosed within the rectangular wooden dock. He swam the first lap like a startled spaniel, head out of the water, hands and feet paddling beneath the surface. The return lap was supposed to be done with a breast stroke and Jack attacked it gamely, using a stroke that looked little different from the first one. When he gained the dock again, he held on to it for a moment, puffing.

  Becker and Karen watched the counselor kneel down to talk with Jack, saw the boy nod his head to indicate that he was all right. After three deep breaths. Jack pushed off the dock into his version of the backstroke. His arms slapped at the water twice and then he sank beneath the surface. He was up again immediately, sputtering, arms still gyrating, then he sank again.

  Becker started forward to save him, but Karen held him back.

  “He’s in trouble,” Becker said.

  “Don’t shame him.”

  Jack had surfaced once more, still struggling. The counselor was now walking parallel to the boy, holding a long, flexible pole, ready to intercede if needed, but, remarkably, he was not needed. Progressing by fits and starts, more under water than on the surface. Jack was gaining the far side. It looked to Becker like a form of medieval trial by drowning, testing not the boy’s ability, but his tolerance for pain and terror.

  Jack reached the dock at last, clinging to it with one hand, too tired to pull himself up, his face barely above the surface. The counselor knelt again and conferred with Jack, determining if he was ready for the final lap required by the test. Even from a distance Becker could see the exhaustion in the boy’s face.

  “They’re not going to make him go again,” he said incredulously.

  “Let Jack decide,” Karen said.

  Becker was incredulous. He had not suspected her to be capable of such cruelty to her own child. “He can’t possibly do it again,” he said.

  “It’s up to him.”

  Becker fought an impulse to throw his hands in the air in surrender, to wave to the counselor and let him know it was over. It was only Karen’s steely control that made him stand where he was.