Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

“Then I guess I’m wasting my time.”

  “Guess so.”

  Currim sat forward again, hands once more palms-down on the table between us. Then he quite deliberately began drumming his fingers.

  “Any more questions, Doc?”

  “Just one.” I slowly got to my feet. Looked down at him. “What do I tell your mother?”

  The drumming stopped. Sudden sorrow veiled his eyes.

  “Tell her…” A slow, measured breath. “Just tell her I’m sorry.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I didn’t make it to the new precinct gym until four thirty. On the way back to Pittsburgh, I realized that having to drive a rented sedan had one advantage over my Mustang. Given how banged up I was, it was nice not to be wedged into a bucket seat.

  The lot behind the Old County Building was nearly deserted, so I had my pick of parking spots. I figured that every available vehicle, marked and otherwise, was in use. Part of the massive joint FBI-Pittsburgh PD investigation into the identity and whereabouts of the elusive shooter, who even now could be planning an attempt on the next victim on his list.

  After locking the car, I stood in the freezing air of the open lot, picturing the killer in my mind. When I’d actually seen him, hidden under his bulky coat and hat, standing casually at the warehouse exit door. Staring frankly at me across the lengthy, shadowed floor.

  There was something implacable, unswerving in his stance. His faceless, determined gaze. The way his gloved hand rested easily on the door handle.

  He won’t stop, I realized suddenly. No matter how intense the manhunt for him, how many law enforcement personnel and resources were brought to bear. The killer would not stop until he’d crossed off every name on his list. Until, for whatever inexplicable reason, his need to avenge John Jessup’s imprisonment and death had been satisfied.

  I blinked up at the glare of sunlight threading gray, weary clouds. The temperature was dropping by the minute, though the latest forecast had promised no new snow.

  Fine with me. Pulling my coat collar up against the icy chill, I hurried across the lot.

  ***

  The departmental gym was housed in a two-storied structure adjacent to the Old County Building. Though I’d never been inside before, it was obvious that it had been recently renovated. The walls were freshly painted, and all the equipment boasted a still-new chrome gloss. Even the free weights looked like they’d just come out of their packing crates.

  As I expected, the gym was as deserted as the parking lot. Maybe a half-dozen officers. Men and women in sweats, departmental t-shirts, and tank tops using the treadmills, Nautilus apparatus, and barbells. One guy—and there’s always at least one in every gym in the world—looked totally ‘roided-out, veins popping on his forearms and neck as he pumped iron in front of a wall mirror.

  I looked around. Maybe I’d beaten Eleanor here after all. Not that it mattered. No way I’d be working out today.

  Then I saw her, sitting at a workout bench in a far corner, away from the others. She was in a sport bra and sweats, bent at the waist, elbow on knee, doing biceps curls with her right hand. Her concentration on her form was so intense, she didn’t even register me until I was only a few feet away.

  “Enjoying the view?” She didn’t look up as she smoothly lifted the multistacked hand weight. Her breathing slow and steady.

  “Looks heavy.”

  “Nah. Just warming up.”

  She smiled at me, then, with a quick motion, shifted the weight to her other hand. Then her left arm began the clean, rhythmic curls.

  “Now you’re just showing off.”

  “Hmm. Somebody sounds intimidated.”

  “Maybe. Though if this fancy-ass place has a speed bag, I’d be happy to return the favor sometime.”

  She finished her set and placed the weight back in its rack against the wall. Then she sat up straight on the bench, rolling the kinks out of her shoulders.

  “Good burn?” I said.

  “The best. I’d ask you to go change and join me, but you don’t look so hot. What happened?”

  I told her, and she made the appropriate commiserating noises. “You oughtta see a doctor.”

  “If I start feeling worse, I will. Promise.”

  She leaned back on her elbows, a stray wisp of hair dangling. Face, arms, and belly sheened with sweat. All sweet curves and lean, defined muscle.

  I was staring. I owned it.

  “Still, the day isn’t a total loss. The view and all.”

  She shrugged. “Good genes. Plus varsity track and field in college. Guess I’ve always liked being strong. In shape. Even before I joined the force.”

  “Too bad you’ve let yourself go.”

  She smiled again. But it was her gaze that held me. Managing to be both frank and warm at the same time, with just the hint of wry amusement.

  “How long are we going to keep doing this?” she said at last.

  “Doing what?” I finally moved, as though freed from a spell, and found a seat next to her on the bench.

  “This,” she said. “Flirting. Mating dance. Whatever. ‘Cause, man, the suspense is killing me.”

  “Not doing me much good, either. But aren’t you the one who’s been busy? Unavailable. With work—”

  Her smile faded. “And family stuff. I know.”

  Eleanor sat up again, reached for a towel hanging next to the free weights rack. Dabbed the sweat from her face.

  “The thing is, Danny, my life is complicated. As you know better than anyone. Besides, I don’t know if I’m over what happened last summer yet…”

  “I wondered about that myself.”

  That damned bank robbery case had unearthed some old hurts for a number of people, myself included. But perhaps Eleanor most of all. Something neither one of us had mentioned much since.

  Now, making an effort to brighten her voice, she looked at me through the folds of the towel.

  “On the other hand, I can’t seem to stop thinking about you. Crazy as it seems.”

  “Or not. And I’m an expert on crazy.”

  She chuckled ruefully, tilting her head until it gently touched mine. “Let’s face it, Danny, our timing sucks. With the shooter out there, the joint task force scrambling, all the political pressure to make an arrest—hell, the only reason Biegler gave me the afternoon off is ’cause I haven’t had a break in about thirty-six hours.”

  “Which means you’re back on duty by dinner, and probably looking at another double shift.”

  “At least. See what I mean? Not exactly a good time to hook up.”

  “Or else it’s the best time.”

  She grinned. “Christ, that’s both lame and desperate. You need to get laid that bad, I’m sure Harry knows the names of some primo hookers. If you can afford them.”

  “Speaking of which, how is my favorite sergeant?”

  “Pretty well, thank God. I saw him this morning. They’re keeping him in All Saints for another two days, then he can be transferred back home.”

  “How’s he taking it?”

  “He probably hates being stuck in Steubenville, away from all the action. But he’s too sore and doped up to make much of a fuss about it. The last time I saw Harry this docile, he was passed out drunk on my living room sofa. I remember, Luther took one good sniff and just—”

  Suddenly my cell rang. It was Neal Alcott.

  “Rinaldi?” Breathless, agitated. Like I’d never heard him before.

  “What is it?”

  “Claire Cobb. You gotta get over here.”

  “What’s happened?”

  He told me.

  “Keep her warm, comfortable. Get her to breathe in a paper bag,” I said. “Where are you?”

  “Majestic Motel. On Third, in Wilkinsburg.”

  I gave Eleanor a quick
glance. In lieu of explanation.

  “Be right there.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Based on the symptoms Alcott described on the phone, it was clear that Claire Cobb was having a panic attack.

  And based on what I was hearing on the all-news radio station as I drove across town, I wasn’t surprised.

  Since the story had leaked about the shooter targeting those he held responsible for John Jessup’s death, there’d been ongoing media speculation about who might be on the hitlist. From sober analysis on mainstream interview shows to reckless guesswork on various Internet sites and blogs, the crimes had become fodder for the nation’s pundits.

  Once the link had been made between the murders of Earl Cranshaw, the guard who’d killed Jessup in prison, and Ralph Loftus, the judge who’d put him there, it had been easy to see the failed attempt on Claire Cobb in the same context. She’d been his prosecutor.

  Which then made it likely that Dave Parnelli, who’d unsuccessfully defended Jessup, was also on the list of potential victims. As well as the cops who’d arrested him, and the jury that had convicted him. Moreover, while the FBI only had the jury foreman under its protection, some commentators feared the entire jury might be at risk.

  In the past two days, whenever I happened to check in on the news coverage, it seemed the theories about the killer’s list were growing more provocative. And personal. One Cleveland print reporter who’d covered Jessup’s trial—and was among the very few who’d done so—wrote in her blog about buying a gun, in case the killer might bear some grudge against her as well. Even the courthouse’s veteran bailiff had expressed concerns about his safety in a paid interview he granted to the National Enquirer.

  I found myself recalling these stories as I drove in a gathering dusk toward Wilkinsburg. While these and dozens of others were either trivial, exploitative, or merely ludicrous, they were just part of the fog of reportage in the age of the endless news cycle. The usual chatter that nowadays bedeviled the serious investigation of a case, or the issues it raised. Vox populi turned to white noise.

  Until two hours ago, when a popular—though anonymous —“true crime” blogger opined that, if he were the unknown shooter, he’d want another crack at ADA Claire Cobb. That anyone who’s ever worked from a list knew you couldn’t move down to the next item until you’d crossed out the one above. “Anything else,” he cheerfully wrote, “is just plain sloppy.”

  Predictably, the incendiary post went viral. And was soon picked up by the mainstream media, who decried its jocular tone even as they quoted from it. Endlessly.

  After making the turn onto Penn Avenue, cobblestones slick with a crust of ice, I tried to imagine Claire’s reaction. Maybe she’d seen it online herself, or watched a local news report on the motel’s TV. Maybe she’d overheard one of her FBI handlers talking about it.

  It didn’t matter. Given her mounting fears and her legitimate concerns about the bureau’s ability to protect her, the cruel story was bound to trigger a convulsive, overwhelming panic.

  New snow flurried and wheeled in the dying sunlight as I merged into slowing traffic. This was the gray, defeated, disavowed part of Wilkinsburg, an area passed over in Pittsburgh’s rush to gentrify its older neighborhoods. On either side of me, angry, desperate men lounged before empty storefronts, or in the doorways of run-down rooming houses. Smoking, arguing, killing time.

  Ahead of me, the once proud Penn Lincoln Hotel, long gone to seed and now marked for demoliton. Beyond its faded façade, garish billboards blocked the waning sun. Narrow alleys snaked between somber, chipped-brick buildings. Boarded windows lined the upper floors. Neon signs flickered above corner bars, mini marts, pool halls, and single-storied motels.

  Claire Cobb was in one of the latter, though it took a full ten minutes for traffic to move enough for me to locate it. The Majestic was on a side street, just past a mom-and-pop store on the southwest corner.

  There were maybe a half-dozen cars in the lot fronting the low-roofed motel, its rough stone and aluminum siding showing the result of many years’ exposure to Pittsburgh’s muscular weather. The word “Majestic,” written in a carved-wood cursive, was backed by a metal trellis that rose above the entrance. Pillows of snow ringed the building’s walls and splayed in strands across the cracked asphalt.

  I’d just parked and locked the rental when Agent Green came out of the frosted double doors to meet me. For some reason, he felt the need to elaborately shake my hand. Perhaps the director’s admonishment about me to Neal Alcott had made its way down the chain of command.

  “Glad you’re here, Doc,” the younger man said, before hustling us both back inside, out of the cold.

  ***

  I was taking Claire Cobb’s pulse.

  “Okay, Claire. Just keep breathing. Deep breaths.”

  We sat next to each other on the motel room’s sagging bed, my fingers on her wrist. I raised the forefinger of my other hand before her moist, blinking eyes.

  “Now just follow my finger, without moving your head.”

  She did, as I traced a horizontal path in the air, to the left and then the right.

  As both her breathing and pulse rate slowed, the color rose in her cheeks. Along with an embarrassed grimace.

  “I’ve had panic attacks before, Doctor Rinaldi. You’d think I’d be used to them.”

  “Nobody ever gets used to them. Were you prescribed medication to help?”

  She nodded. “Xanax. Ran out yesterday. I’ve been taking them on spec.”

  Claire took another deep, cleansing breath, at the same time shifting her bulky shoulder sling. The bandages had already started to fray, lose their adhesion.

  I sat back, then glanced over at Agents Alcott and Green, who stood in almost identical poses at the shuttered window. Hands behind their backs, feet planted apart on the threadbare carpet. Their discomfort palpable.

  In contrast, sitting forward anxiously on a nearby chair, was Gloria Reese, the agent personally assigned to Claire. Hands clasped on her lap, she looked over at her charge with what seemed like genuine concern.

  Finally, Alcott spoke up. Nodding at Claire.

  “Is she okay now, Doc?”

  Claire answered him. “She’s fine, thanks. Good to go.”

  Unamused, he kept his gaze on me. “Can you stay with her for a few minutes? We have to go arrange transport.”

  I peered at Claire. “You’re moving again?”

  “After that online post about me? Damn right I want to move. Out of the city.”

  Alcott took a few steps toward the bed, oversized fists clenching at his sides.

  “Jesus, I’d like to get my hands on the prick who wrote that thing. Practically daring the shooter to try and finish what he started with Ms. Cobb.”

  “Fuckin’ Internet.” Agent Green’s informed assessment of the situation. After which he turned and carefully peeked out between the shutters to the street beyond.

  I suppressed a small gasp as I got to my feet and faced Alcott. Still favoring my sore neck.

  “You okay, Rinaldi?”

  “I’ll live. Listen, even you can’t blame Claire for wanting to change locations again. Where to?”

  “Sewickley. Outside the city limits, but close enough to maintain control of the situation. A night in a B&B we booked there, then transport to the Ohio safe house where we have the jury foreman and the two Cleveland cops.”

  Claire shivered noticeably. “Good plan. This way, all four of us will be conveniently located in one place. Makes things easier for the killer when he finds us.”

  “He won’t, Ms. Cobb.”

  With a weary sigh, he took out his pocket handkerchief and blew his nose. The persistent cold had made his eyes look strangely old. Red-veined, fatigued.

  “Hell, the location of the safe house is a secret even to most field agents. Strictly
need-to-know basis.”

  She looked unconvinced, but said nothing. Merely let her head fall, eyes on the scuffed carpet.

  I bent and took her pulse again. Elevated, but not bad. Appropriate to the situation, I figured.

  Meanwhile, Alcott had stepped purposely to the door, motioning for the other two agents to follow.

  “Back in five, okay?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he strode out into the deepening darkness, Green and Reese at his heels.

  “Really inspires confidence, that guy,” Claire said, with feigned humor. Her skin had begun to pale again.

  Though her outward symptoms had subsided, I knew she was barely keeping it together.

  “Looks like they’ve got a good plan.” Wishing I sounded more convinced. “Besides, you’re probably tougher than you think. Your opposing counsel in the Jessup trial, Dave Parnelli, called you a cruise missile. And he doesn’t exactly pour on the compliments, if you know what I mean.”

  Her expression changed. Grew pensive.

  “Tough? I don’t feel so tough now. I’ve never been through something like this. All of a sudden, it’s like the real world has broken through. Invaded my controlled little life.”

  “But you’ve dealt with crime—and criminals—your whole career.”

  She shook her head. “It’s not like a court room. It’s not the brutal civility of people in power suits, arguing before a jury. It’s mad men with guns leaning out of a car, aiming for your head.”

  Her gaze went to the shuttered window. What I suspect she imagined might be right outside, beyond its thin glass.

  “I’m ashamed to say it.” Her voice dropping. “But I’m afraid. Really afraid.”

  I resumed my seat next to her on the bed. Kept my own voice measured, matter-of-fact.

  “No need to be ashamed, Claire. I’m afraid myself a lot of the time. It’s a scary world.”

  “You don’t seem that scared to me. Jesus, what kinda guy bullshits a damsel in distress?”

  “No bullshit. Truth is, I think fear’s gotten a bad rap. Years ago, right after grad school, I did a little mountain climbing out west. The Tetons. I was with a friend of mine, an experienced mountain guide. First time out, I almost couldn’t do it. I had to admit to him that I was afraid. Know what he said? He said he wouldn’t climb with anyone who wasn’t.”