“Well, just because he was asleep, doesn’t mean he didn’t see anything.”
Brian bolted up in bed.
“Oh my god,” he said.
“What?” Darcie asked, sounding more awake.
He turned to her in the dark, barely able to see the confused look on her face. “You’re right.”
“About what?”
“What if the Somnambulist did see something?”
Brian drove along the quiet dark streets of Smokey Hollow. He had turned left from his road onto Main Street, cruising past the closed downtown shops and empty storefronts. There were lights on at the Odd Fellows Hall, but the rest of the businesses were closed. The cinema marquee still had the “Y” and “C,” and Brian wondered if Rolfe Krimmer was watching the leftover film for the umpteenth time.
Brian’s was the solitary vehicle on Main Street as he passed the fire station, its service bay doors open and a couple firefighters milling about inside. Town Hall was dark. As he drove past St. John’s Church on his left, he saw lights in the rectory where Father Scrimsher and Sister Bernice lived. As he slowed almost to a stop, he also noticed a light in a second-floor window of the vacant brick building that had been the church’s old-folks’ home.
He took a left onto Whispering Lane, driving by the house Ruth Snethen had been hiding out in, Leo Wibbels’ real estate sign still perched on its front lawn. Won’t get many showings that way, he thought.
Brian took the loop around Cheshire Road, past the Loony Bin, stopping briefly and wondering if he should just go up to the door and ring Sherman Thurk’s bell. No. He knew he’d not find the Somnambulist there. He’d be out here on the streets somewhere, wandering.
He drove off Cheshire and onto Willow, ending up on Hemlock just down the road from his office. He sat in his car at the stop sign, thinking. Down one end of Hemlock he could see the lights on at Cully’s Pub, the only sign of life on this Thursday night. He looked to the right toward the other end where Hemlock rose toward its juncture with Ridge Road. He went in that direction, turning left onto the road ascending the ridge.
The dark shape of a tall, thin man with high, tousled hair loomed ahead, walking up Ridge Road, pinned in the beams of his headlights.
Brian parked his car, getting out and catching up to the sleepwalking man. Once alongside Sherman Thurk, Brian examined the man’s face. It was dark, and most of Thurk’s features were in shadows, but Brian could tell the man’s eyes were open. The question was, did they actually function? Were those open eyes capable of seeing things? And if so, did the mind comprehend the images they saw?
“Sherman,” Brian said, keeping his voice soft so as not to disturb the man. “Are you awake?” He knew the answer but had to ask anyway.
Thurk kept walking and did not respond.
“Can you hear me?” Brian asked, keeping stride with the man.
Still no response.
The man’s pace was steady but slow, and Brian was glad because, as the road inclined, he could feel his lungs strain as they worked extra to suck in air. The effects of his recent relapse into smoking could be felt during this brief bit of nocturnal exercise.
“Where are you going, Sherman?”
The tall man shrugged.
Brian felt good. At least that was some kind of response. That meant the man heard him.
Thurk stopped suddenly and bent down. His fingers grasped a broken pair of sunglasses, picking them up and putting them into his pants pocket. He continued walking.
“I need to ask you some things,” Brian said. “I need your help. Did you see anyone at the Town Pound the night you found Hettie Gritton’s body?”
Thurk shook his head.
Brian wondered if he would only be able to ask yes or no questions, if the man was only capable of responding by moving his head. But didn’t people often talk in their sleep? So why not him?
“Do you remember seeing anyone on this road the night of the asylum fire?”
“No,” Thurk said, his voice distant, detached.
He could speak while asleep, Brian thought. That’s good.
“Where did you used to live, before moving into the rooming house on Cheshire Street?”
“Here,” Thurk said, and stopped.
Brian looked up and realized they were standing in front of what remained of the Mustard House. A metal chain-link fence had been erected around the ruins, with signs posted along it reading: “No trespassing per order police.” Beyond the fence were piles of burnt timber from the collapsed mansion. One wall on the right still partially stood, black jagged beams poking into the night. The place smelled smoky, like an old campfire.
“Yes,” Brian said. “You were here before, at the institute. You were treated by Dr. Wymbs.”
“Yes,” Thurk said. He stood before the ruins, almost as if examining them. Brian wondered if he could really see them.
“But he didn’t cure you, did he? You still sleepwalk.”
“No, he didn’t fix me.”
“So why did he let you go? Why didn’t he keep you here?”
There was hesitation. “He said there was nothing wrong with me. He said I was normal.”
“Of course, you’re normal,” Brian said. “But why didn’t he want to keep you at the institute, to continue helping you?”
“He said I should live in town with regular people. He said who’s to say what’s normal and what isn’t. He said there were plenty of everyday people who weren’t normal.”
True, Brian thought. “But didn’t he want to help you with your sleepwalking?”
“He did what he could. He strapped me down in my bed.”
“And did that help?”
“It kept me from moving,” Thurk said, his voice sleepy. “But when he left me alone at night without restraints, I still went walking.”
“Where did you walk?”
“In the hallways.”
“Weren’t you locked in your room?”
“No,” Thurk said. “Dr. Wymbs didn’t believe in locking the doors.”
“Why not?”
“He said we weren’t prisoners. We were patients.”
“But weren’t some of the patients dangerous?”
Thurk shook his head. “None that I met.”
“Did you ever encounter babies at the institute?”
Thurk didn’t respond, but his body shook, as if something cold ran up his spine.
“Did you ever hear them cry?”
Thurk started to open his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out. His lips closed and his face grew rigid. The man looked afraid.
“Did you see something?” Brian asked. “Did you see anything while wandering the halls?”
Thurk’s eyes grew round. “Evil,” he uttered.
“What was it?”
“A dark evil. A black specter.”
“Where? What was it?” Brian was excited and his tone rose. He tried to control himself. He didn’t want to wake the man now that he was getting somewhere.
“In the hallways. I saw a black specter.”
“What did it look like?”
“Blackness flowed from its body. Its head was large and misshapen, like a demon’s. It looked at me.”
Brian stepped close to the man. “Did you see its face?”
“Yes,” Thurk said, a grimace forming.
“Did you recognize it? What did it look like?”
“It was hideous.”
“What was it doing?”
Now Thurk’s eyes drooped, as if he were about to cry. “It was carrying—” His voice choked.
“Carrying what?” Brian was on the edge with anticipation, his pulse quickening.
“The specter had a baby in its arms.” In the darkness, Thurk’s face grew pale.
“What did it do with the baby?”
“I don’t know,” Thurk said, sobbing now. “An orderly came by and took me back to my room.”
Brian didn’t understand. “What happened to the specter?
Did the orderly see it too?”
Thurk nodded. “He told me to forget what I saw.”
“But what about the baby?” Brian asked, frustrated. His temple sweated. “Did the orderly say what was happening to the baby?”
“He said it was being taken away,” Thurk said, and then his body shuddered so hard that Brian thought he was going to go into convulsions. “He said the baby was the devil’s spawn and had to be gotten rid of.”
Chapter 23
“WE ALL SIN”
Reporters from all around came for Eldon Winch’s arraignment at the county courthouse. Even though he was being charged only with the murder of Leo Wibbels, most of the media outside of Smokey Hollow linked the former selectmen chairman to the string of strangulations plaguing the town.
But Brian knew things none of the other reporters knew. Wibbels wasn’t strangled, and there wasn’t a pillowcase over his head. Brian knew the killer was still out there, and so did the State Police. But Brian also knew a few things that even Capt. Steem and Sgt. Wickwire didn’t know. There had been babies at the Mustard House, and someone had taken them away, most likely the person who put them in the steamer trunk.
Brian wondered if Dr. Wymbs had run an abortion clinic at the institute. A little extra cash on the side. But Ivy Mockler said she heard babies crying, which means they were born alive. The questions remained as to where the babies had come from and who took them away. And, of course, why.
Sherman Thurk hadn’t been any more help last night at the site of the asylum. He had seen something in the hallways at night, of that Brian had no doubt. But what the Somnambulist had described sounded like a nightmare. Did Thurk’s waking state and dream state collide to form a distorted perception of reality? Whatever he saw, the only thing Brian gathered from the sleepwalker’s ramblings was that it was large, dark, and hideous. Not much help.
Brian had offered Thurk a ride home last night, but the sleepwalker had declined. Even though he felt a little guilty about that, Brian didn’t mind. There was something creepy about holding a conversation with someone who was asleep.
Winch’s arraignment was uneventful, a formality during which the accused didn’t utter a word. His lawyer notified the court of the man’s intent to plead not guilty, and the whole procedure was over in a few minutes. Winch never looked up, keeping his head bowed and not making eye contact with anyone in the courthouse except for his lawyer and the judge.
Outside, on the courthouse steps, Brian spotted Treece with Steem and Wickwire. The three men eyed him when he approached.
“You’ve been kind of quiet lately, Mr. Keays,” Steem said, his tone inquisitive.
Brian shrugged. “There hasn’t been a lot breaking in the case,” he said. “Certainly nothing you’ve provided me.”
“Maybe the arrest of Winch has quieted things down,” Steem said.
“Look, we all know he’s not behind the other murders. That’s why you haven’t charged him.”
“It’s up to the county attorney to file charges, not us.”
“The M.O. wasn’t the same as the other murders,” Brian said, pointing out what the men already knew. “But I hope you don’t think this is totally separate from them.”
“Why?” Steem asked. “Something you know?”
“You tell me,” he answered. He didn’t want to share what Corwin Dudle had unveiled over the years of his investigations, or couldn’t actually, at least not with the two men from the State Police. He wished he could tell Noah, but maybe he could work on Dudle a bit and get the man to come forward. But he understood the amateur sleuth’s hesitation. The man had spent his lifetime investigating the mysterious case of The Pillowcase and the disappearance of Timmy Birtch, and it seemed like it was so close to the end. He couldn’t ruin it for the man. Not after all the hard work he’d put into it.
“If we have any information on the case worth revealing to the media,” Steem said, “we will do so at the proper time.”
“I’m sure you will,” Brian said.
“Any more mystery notes from your anonymous source?”
Brian shook his head. “Not a word.” As he turned to leave the trio, he looked back. “In fact, it’s kind of funny.”
“What?” Steem asked, irritated.
“I haven’t gotten any messages since Wibbels was murdered and Winch arrested.” He shrugged. “Makes you think.”
Of course it was a lie, but why not keep the two detectives wondering. Besides, it brought him a little pleasure to see the confused looks on their faces.
On the way back to the newspaper office from the courthouse, Brian stopped at St. John’s Church, hoping to catch Father Scrimsher at the rectory. As he walked up to the front door, a cooing sound drew his glance toward the vacant brick building that had been the diocese’s old-folks’ home. Several pigeons perched on the edge of the roof.
Brian rang the doorbell and waited patiently. When the door opened, he faced a smiling Father Scrimsher.
“Mr. Keays,” the priest said. “What an unexpected pleasure. What brings you here? Did you forget it wasn’t Sunday?” The thick flesh around his neck jiggled as he laughed.
Brian returned the man’s grin with one of his own. “No, I was just wondering if I could take a minute of your time.”
The priest gestured for him to enter and led him to the parlor. There were overstuffed chairs with wooden arms by a small coffee table. Brian sat in one, and Father Scrimsher settled his heavy buttocks in the other. Brian noticed the fireplace at the back wall of the room and thought of Corwin Dudle, on the roof, listening to that dialogue those many years ago and how that conversation commenced the obsession that absorbed the rest of the man’s life.
There was movement in the hallway.
“Sister Bernice,” Scrimsher called out. “Would you be so kind as to bring us some tea?”
Brian caught a glimpse of the nun in her habit.
“Yes, Father,” she said in a low voice and disappeared down the hall.
Scrimsher turned to Brian. “Is this newspaper business? Or maybe a spiritual call?”
“I guess you would have to say the former,” Brian said, taking out his notepad and a pen.
Scrimsher gave the objects a suspicious glance. “Usually what’s said in these confines is of a private nature.”
“I just thought we could have a chat about a few things I’ve been checking into.”
“And what would this be in regard to?” The priest seemed edgy.
Brian thought about how to phrase his questions delicately. “I understand you had some consultations with Dr. Wymbs,” he started. “Maybe regarding patients at the institute?”
He watched the priest for reaction. What he saw looked more like confusion than anything.
The priest’s eyebrows arched. “I’m not quite sure what you are referring to.”
Brian sucked on the end of his pen, wishing it were a cigarette. “Dr. Wymbs used to come here to see you, correct?”
Scrimsher’s eyes studied him, giving Brian the feeling that the priest was trying to figure out where this questioning was going. “The doctor was not a regular churchgoer,” he said, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
“No,” Brian said. “I was thinking of a visit more on a professional level.”
Scrimsher’s eyebrows almost collided. “I don’t quite follow.”
He hoped the priest wouldn’t lie—maybe avoid, but not lie. So he put the question more directly. “Dr. Wymbs did come see you, didn’t he?” At least once that Brian knew of, but maybe more often than that.
Scrimsher cleared his throat. Before he had a chance to speak, Sister Bernice ambled in, carrying a wooden tray with a small tea kettle, two tea cups, and a pair of matching containers for sugar and cream. She set the tray on the coffee table.
“Thank you, Sister Bernice,” Scrimsher said.
“You’re welcome, Father.” She bowed slightly before leaving.
“Tea?” Scrimsher said, arching his eyeb
rows as he looked at Brian.
“No, thank you.” Coffee maybe, he thought, but not tea. He wished the priest had offered him coffee.
“You were saying?” Scrimsher said, pouring hot water into one of the teacups, steam rising from its surface.
Brian waited as the man scooped a couple teaspoons of sugar into his cup and topped it off with a dollop of cream. He wanted the man’s full attention, and he had it after the priest took a slurping sip and leaned back in his chair.
“I was saying,” Brian proceeded, “that I know the doctor visited you, and I was just wondering if you provided some service, maybe to assist treating patients at the institute?” It was Brian’s turn to arch an eyebrow.
Scrimsher held his gaze, his eyes searching for some hidden motive behind the question.
“I do recall,” Scrimsher said, “a day when Dr. Wymbs dropped by for a brief visit.”
“I see,” Brian said, pretending to jot it down in his notepad, noticing the priest’s intense look. “And was the visit initiated by you or by the doctor?”
“Heavens,” the priest said. “That was so many years ago. I would only be able to hazard a guess.”
“Would you be able to guess what the reason was for the visit?”
Scrimsher’s lips tightened. His eyes moved back and forth as if searching for an answer. “I’m sure it was a private matter.”
“Were there any follow-up visits?”
Scrimsher set his tea cup down with disinterest and interlocked his fingers, resting his hands on his lap. “If there were, they were most likely infrequent. Dr. Wymbs was a very private man who rarely made appearances in the community.”
Brian put the top of his pen in his mouth, thinking. “I was under the impression that the doctor made trips into town to look after certain patients.” He watched Scrimsher’s eyes.
“Patients?”
“Yes.”
“His patients were at the institute.”
“But I’m talking about the ones who were well enough to leave the institute.”
Scrimsher shifted in his seat. “That’s not something I’d have any knowledge of.”
“I guess I thought maybe you were assisting the doctor in some way.”
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