Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  “I know.”

  “And, please, Danny. I know we have to talk about this…but not now. Okay? I don’t want words. I don’t want to think beyond this moment.”

  “Neither do I.”

  She shifted position. I grew an inch inside her.

  Her eyes smiled. “Love to, mister, but somebody’s gotta feed the poor dog.”

  “You do take your responsibilities seriously, don’t you, Detective?”

  “You’re one to talk. Sometimes I think you get off on taking the world on your shoulders.”

  “Actually, according to Noah Frye, I get off on being a TV celebrity.”

  “Well, that goes without saying…”

  She gave a quiet laugh. We kissed again, deeply.

  Then, from the bundle of clothes beside us, a cell phone—maybe hers, maybe mine—began to ring.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Turned out, it was Eleanor’s. She recognized the ring.

  Reluctantly, she pulled away from me and rummaged in her clothes for her cell. Found it.

  “Yes, this is Detective Lowrey…Okay. Right. Give me thirty minutes. Right, see you then.”

  After clicking off, she sat up on her elbows. Eyes grown solemn, she’d undergone within moments the familiar alchemy of modern life. The personal giving way to the professional. The inevitable, purposeful return to duty. Unmindful of the way her naked breasts gleamed in the suffused, predawn light.

  “Biegler or Alcott?” I reached for my own clothes, mingled with hers in the pile.

  “Agent Zarnicki, speaking for both of them. All top level task force personnel are meeting at seven a.m. Federal Building, downtown. To implement the new security protocols and refocus the hunt for the shooter.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means we better have something concrete to present to the director and City Hall. A new approach to the case that will get results.”

  “And one they can sell to the media. And the public.”

  Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Eleanor began separating her clothes from the pile. And suddenly froze. Stared at the bundle in her hands. Then up at me, bleary-eyed. Trying to focus.

  “Wait, I was so drunk…I think I remember…Jesus, Danny, did I…did I strip for you last night…?”

  “Well, I was fairly blitzed myself…”

  She buried her face in the wad of clothes. “I don’t believe it! That’s so cheesy, so—so not me…”

  “If you say so…but it was pretty great.”

  Growling, she playfully hurled her balled-up sweater at me. “This is all your fault, Rinaldi! I swear to God, I’m never having another drink. Never!”

  “I believe you.” I leaned forward and kissed her softly. “Honest.”

  She kissed me back, just as softly. Then lowered her chin, so that our foreheads touched.

  “Danny, I gotta see to Luther, take a shower, and hit the bricks. It’s gonna be a brutal day.”

  “I should get going, too. See if I remember where I live. Don’t seem to be spending much time there lately.”

  I rose stiffly, then helped her to her feet.

  “Besides, now that the fog’s lifting, I seem to remember we each left our cars parked outside Noah’s Ark.”

  Eleanor groaned. “Shit, I forgot…”

  “No problem. I’ll get dressed and call a cab. Have it waiting for us by the time you’re ready.”

  Which I did.

  ***

  We parted outside Noah’s bar in the icy cold blue of early dawn. I’d had the cab drop her at her unmarked first, then watched as she pulled out onto an empty Second Avenue.

  Hands jammed in my overcoat pockets, I made the short trudge along the riverbank, leaving the day’s first footprints on the snow-powdered asphalt, to where my rental was parked. I actually had to scrape a thin glaze of ice off the door handle with a fingernail to insert my key.

  Driving cautiously across the bridge to the foot of Mt. Washington, I used my cell to check my messages. Again, nothing from patients, other than a potential new one calling to make an appointment. But there was a message from Angie Villanova, left late last night.

  I called her back.

  “You know it’s not even six, right, Danny? It’s barely light out.”

  “You sounded pretty concerned in your message.”

  “Well, I am concerned. For her…”

  I took a guess. “Are we talking about Maggie Currim?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. She and I are sorta bonding, ya know what I mean? She’s really opening up to me. Sharing her troubles. It’s not like she has anyone else, since you bailed on her.”

  “I didn’t exactly bail, Angie.”

  “And you didn’t exactly step up, either. Besides, believe it or not, this isn’t about you, Mr. Wonderful. But maybe you can try to pay attention anyway.”

  “Sure. I’ll try anything once.”

  Great, I thought. Banter with my third cousin, twice removed, after an exhausting night without sleep and before my morning coffee. Squinting through the bleak, wintry light of a recalitrant sunrise, I hoped against hope for the familiar Starbucks sign.

  “But pull over first. I want your complete attention.”

  I did as requested, finding a side street just past the mouth of the Incline. I pulled to the curb.

  “As you know,” she began pointedly, “her son Wesley’s arrest is the biggest thing to hit West Virginia in years. The TV, local talk radio, the Internet. There’s even a Facebook page devoted to the murder victim. The Ed Meachem Memorial Page. So friends and family can post condolences, share fond memories of him. That kinda stuff.”

  “I imagine people are also posting horrible things about Wes Currim.”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s condemned to the fires of hell on a daily basis. Usually by people who believe he should be boiled in oil first, or buried upside down in an ant hill, or fed to a wood chipper. Man, those good, decent, down-home folks sure are a colorful lot.”

  “Must be pretty hard on Maggie. I wish she could be convinced not to read that garbage.”

  “She doesn’t. Not anymore. But what really hurt her is a YouTube video put up by the Greer family.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Leonard Greer. A Wheeling couple whose daughter disappeared a few years back. Her name was Lily. She was only twenty-three years old at the time.”

  “I’m sorry for their loss, of course, but what does this missing girl have to do with Maggie Currim?”

  “Lily used to work for Maggie’s husband Jack. At their auto parts store. She was his secretary.”

  Now I began to see where this was going.

  “So Lily was the girl Maggie’s husband was having the affair with.”

  “That’s right. Maggie told me she explained all this to you. How Jack had been sleeping with his secretary. And that when she found out about it, and confronted him, Jack and Lily ran away together.”

  “And nobody knows where they went?”

  “Neither one of them was ever heard from again. Though Lily had applied for a passport in Wheeling before they disappeared. So most people, including her family, figure she and Jack are overseas somewhere. Asia, South America, Europe. Who the hell knows?”

  “But what about this YouTube video? What’s on it?”

  “I’ve seen it, Danny, and I gotta admit, it’s a throat-grabber. It shows Mr. and Mrs. Greer sitting together, talking to the camera about what a sweet, wonderful girl their daughter was. All the while showing photos and videos of Lily as a cheerleader, helping out at a homeless shelter on Thanksgiving, behind the wheel in her first car. A beautiful, adorable kid. Believe me, it’s a goddam ten on the heartbreak scale.”

  “Sounds like it.”

  “Yeah, until the last part. Where they show a pho
to of Jack and Lily that was taken at some holiday party at the store. The horny bastard has his arm draped all over the poor girl. Both of ’em with big, dopey smiles. Then they show a mug shot of Jack, from when he got a DUI a few years before. He looks like shit, Danny. Old and mean. Every parent’s nightmare.”

  “Poor Maggie…”

  “It gets worse. Somehow they morph this photo into a mug shot of Wes Currim, taken at his arrest last week. Like father, like son, see? Then we cut back to the grieving parents, holding hands, as the father looks straight at the camera and says—and I wrote it down, so this is the actual quote—“It’s no wonder Wes Currim is charged with a brutal, unthinkable murder. Evil runs in their blood. Jack Currim stole our daughter from her family, and now his son Wes has stolen Ed Meachem from his.’ End quote. Then the screen goes black.”

  “Jesus…” I gave it some thought. “Wait a minute. How can they post something like that? What if potential jurors happened to see it..?”

  “I know. That’s why, at the very end, a written disclaimer appears reminding viewers that Wes Currim is only allegedly guilty of murder. That all suspects are presumed innocent. Just to cover their asses legally.”

  “I assume the video’s a hit?”

  “Fifty, sixty thousand views. Now the Greers are getting invited to go on talk shows. To tell their story.”

  “I’m not surprised. And while I understand their rage at Jack Currim, the connection to Wes’ arrest for murder is just guilt by association.”

  “That’s how Maggie sees it, too. Especially since she still maintains that Wes is innocent.”

  I looked out at the curve of river visible between the silent houses. Even in the heart of the city, there was something timeless in this primeval image of the world that nature presented in earliest morning. A quality of the light, the air. The pristine, untracked hills. As it must have seemed, in Conrad’s words, in “the first ages.”

  Not the world Angie and I, nor anyone else, inhabited.

  Nor had for a long, long time…

  “You still there, Danny?” Angie’s throaty impatience crackled over my cell’s speaker.

  “I’m here.” I reached and turned the rental’s dash heater up. “I was just thinking about Wes Currim.”

  “What about him? C’mon, don’t keep a lady in suspense. Is he guilty or not?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I think so. There’s nothing to indicate he isn’t.”

  “Except a mother’s faith. I know that sounds like some horse-shit Hallmark movie, but it’s pretty much the deal. Maggie’s sure her son’s innocent, and nothing will convince her otherwise. Not even Wes himself. Damndest thing.”

  Yeah, I thought. It sure was.

  ***

  Maybe it was because I was slightly hungover, but I didn’t think about what happened between Eleanor and me until I pulled into my driveway. Even then, I had no idea what, if anything, I did think about it.

  I shut off the engine, but stayed behind the wheel. Replaying the long night’s events. I knew she and I could probably put off discussing things while the investigation was ongoing. Hell, if we were lucky, maybe even beyond that. However, given the kind of people we both were, it was going to happen at some point.

  But, thankfully, not now. All I wanted to do now was take a hot shower and grab as much sleep as I could.

  I got out of the car into a razor-sharp cold, and walked briskly to my front door. Bending to pick up the morning’s Post-Gazette, I saw a front page sidebar about the continuing frigid temperatures. Apparently, no relief from the region’s winter weather was in sight.

  Of course, the headlines were all devoted to the hunt for the elusive shooter—the lead story being the death of his latest victim, Cleveland ADA Claire Cobb. I got all this from a quick glance, after which I tucked the folded paper under my arm. I didn’t have it in me to read more.

  Once inside the house, I switched on a table lamp, tossed the newspaper on a chair, and headed across the front room. Until, for some reason, I happened to glance at the rolltop desk.

  And then, suddenly, stood very still.

  The stack of manilla folders—the files on John Jessup that Agent Alcott had given me—was gone.

  Taking a long, deep breath, I tried to remember if I’d moved the files myself. Maybe taken them into the bedroom.

  But no. I’d left them here, on the rolltop.

  Instantly, my heart quickened. I shook off my fatigue, ignoring the ache in my shoulders, and stepped further into the room. Scanning the hallway opening to my left. Glancing down the corridor to my right, which led to the garage.

  Nothing.

  Maybe, I thought, whoever took the files had come and gone. But some primal instinct told me otherwise.

  Someone—whoever it was—was in this house. Now.

  My fists clenching involuntarily, I crossed to the other side of the room. Stepped into the main hallway. Unlit, carpeted, silent. Leading on the left to my bedroom, on the right to the kitchen.

  I turned right, and saw it.

  A light, coming from the kitchen. Too bright for the morning sun. Not this early.

  I crept carefully down the hallway to the kitchen entrance. Paused just outside the threshold.

  Then, steeling myself, I went in.

  There was a man sitting at the kitchen table, under the overhead light. The opened files spread out before him. A steaming mug of coffee in his hand.

  Lyle Barnes.

  I gaped at him, surprise replaced by anger.

  “Barnes! What the—Christ, half the bureau’s searching for you! Where the hell have you been hiding?”

  He looked up at me with sleepy, half-lidded eyes.

  “Here, Doc. I’ve been right here.”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Lyle Barnes kicked the chair opposite his toward me under the table.

  “Maybe you oughtta park it, son. You look like crap. What happened, you get hit by a truck?”

  Momentarily stunned, I couldn’t think of anything else to do. So I sat.

  “Just don’t touch these files on Jessup, okay? I’m working on ’em.” He raised his coffee mug. “By the way, we’re low on coffee.”

  “We?”

  “Well, I mean you, of course. Though I’ve replaced any other stuff I’ve eaten.”

  I put my bandaged hands to my temples, trying to quell the sudden throbbing in my head.

  “What are you talking about? Are you telling me you’ve been hiding out this whole time here? In my house?”

  He shrugged. “Turns out, it was a smart move on my part. You’re practically never here. Or else you just come home to crash for a couple hours.”

  I could still feel the anger burning in my chest.

  “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t kick your ass outta here,” I said. “And then sic the bureau on you.”

  “I can give you two. First, I’m sorta your patient, and you don’t strike me as the kinda therapist who throws his patients under a bus.” He sipped his coffee. “And second, you’re curious as hell to find out how I did it.”

  I considered this, my gaze meeting his over the rim of his mug. I had to admit, the smug son-of-a-bitch was right. On both counts.

  “Okay,” I said at last. “Truth is, I do want to know what happened. Besides, the bureau’s stopped looking for you anyway.”

  “Good. They shoulda called off the search days ago. It was a stupid waste of resources.”

  He drained his mug, then went about arranging the files in front of him. Which gave me the opportunity to examine him more closely.

  Not surprisingly, he looked like hell. His lined face had thinned in the past four days, and wore a yellowish pallor. His red-rimmed eyes and slight hand tremor bespoke the countless sleepless hours he’d endured since leaving the hotel that night. Even his voice, while s
till threaded with sarcasm, carried the telltale rasp of exhaustion.

  He was also wearing the same suit I’d last seen him in, minus the tie. Both the jacket and white shirt beneath were wrinkled, darkly outlined at the creases.

  “Have you slept at all since you slipped away from Alcott?” I asked him.

  “Not if I could help it. Couple hours here and there.”

  “And…?”

  “What always happens. The seven circles of hell.” A bitter smile. “Luckily, you were never here when I woke up screaming. Even you wouldn’t have missed that clue.”

  I sighed. “There you go, pissing me off again. What is it with you, anyway?”

  “Lousy people skills. Sue me.”

  He rose abruptly and went over to where the coffee carafe—my coffee carafe—burbled on the tiled counter.

  Barnes poured himself another cup, then turned to me.

  “You want a cup? You look like you could use one.”

  “Sure, thanks. Black. The cups are—”

  “Hell, I know where the cups are.” Reaching into the cupboard to his right and getting one.

  He returned and placed two fresh steaming mugs of coffee on the table, positioned carefully within the array of opened files. I could see where he’d made notes with a pen on some of the typed pages.

  “Mind if we start at the beginning?” I gratefully inhaled the coffee’s rich aroma. “From when you ran out on us at the Marriott? What happened, you didn’t like the room service?”

  He frowned. “You gonna make smartass remarks, or you gonna listen to the story?”

  “Knowing me, I’ll probably do both. But go ahead.”

  I could tell that the authoritative, G-man part of him bristled at my tone, but I didn’t give a damn. Apparently he’d been squatting in my house, without my permission, for days. I figured I was entitled to some attitude.

  “Start with why you took off in the first place,” I went on. “It can’t just have been your lack of respect for Neal Alcott.”

  “It wasn’t. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a self-satisfied little shit, but that wasn’t why I did it. John Jessup was my last case, my last collar, before I retired from the Bureau. Now some whack job was going around killing people because of what happened to him? No way I was gonna cower in some safe house while my idiot colleagues mishandled the investigation.”