“I thought it was something like that.”
“Good for you. Though it wouldn’t exactly take a genius to figure it out. Personality Assessment 101.”
I gave him a smile. “You know, I’ve really missed our little talks, Lyle.”
“I’ll bet. Anyway, once I ditched you losers at the hotel, I walked about ten blocks away and flagged down a cab. So the doorman wouldn’t happen to see which cab company I used—or, even worse, recognize the driver. Cabbies are creatures of habit, and the smart ones know to cruise the better hotels. Improves the chances they’ll get a pricey fare to the airport. After a while, the doormen and parking valets get pretty familiar with the cabbies’ faces.”
“Makes sense.”
“Anyway, I had the driver take me to the nearest electronics store. Luckily, I had some cash. No more using credit cards to buy anything from that point on.”
“So no way to trace your movements.”
“Right. I bought a throw-away cell phone at the store and called a buddy of mine at Quantico. Bob Henderson. I knew I had to get whatever I needed from my bureau contacts fast, before the word went out that I’d skipped. Like I thought, it took Bob about thirty seconds to give me your home address.”
“The bureau has my home address?”
He laughed. “What are you, an infant? Of course.”
Then I remembered Alcott’s comment back at Noah’s Ark, about the file the FBI had on me. It was no lie.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You had to know that soon Alcott would have everybody looking for you. Checking on your friends and family. And your colleagues at the bureau. What if they talked to this so-called buddy and he told them he’d given you my address?”
“I knew he wouldn’t do that.”
“Why? Because he’s such a loyal guy?”
“No, because I happen to know that Bob goes up to Georgetown once a week to pay a dominatrix to smack him around. And he knows I know. Not exactly the kinda thing that would look good in his personnel file. I figure, I keep his secret, he’ll keep mine.”
“But why come here, to my place?”
“Because I knew they’d never think to look for me here. And I was right. Alcott and his kind are a perfect fit for the bureau’s herd mentality. Nowadays, it’s all about hard-target search protocols. I knew they’d check my credit cards, the calls and GPS on my cell. They’d search the airports, homeless shelters, motels. I also knew they’d talk to all the cab companies, so I tipped my cabbie an extra hundred to keep his mouth shut in case they started showing my picture around.”
“Was this before or after he drove you up here to my house?”
A puzzled stare. “Why would I be stupid enough to take the same cab? Why give the cabbie information that he could reveal, despite the size of his tip?” He shook his head. “Really, Doc. Are you always this trusting? How the fuck do civilians like you survive?”
“Then how did you get here?”
“Like the rest of the average joes in this fair city. I took the bus. Two, in fact, which got me up here to Mt. Washington, and then I walked the eleven blocks along Grandview till I found your address.”
“In this weather?”
“My ancestors come from Norway. I’m part polar bear.”
Which reminded me that he’d also had an overcoat and gloves. At least when he was at the Marriott. Even so, the trek along Grandview must have been arduous. Yet I could see him doing it.
“Okay,” I said, “so now you’ve arrived here. How did you get in?”
“Easily enough. I figured your front door would have both a good lock and a deadbolt. So I went around to the rear of the house and climbed the trellis up to your deck. Great view of the Three Rivers, by the way. But the door leading out to the deck from here…” Indicating the kitchen where we sat…“Well, let’s just say there’re some security issues. I used the edge of a credit card and the corkscrew from my Swiss Army knife to pick the lock.”
He withdrew a familiar red Swiss Army knife from his trouser pocket and put it on the table.
“Word to the wise, Doc: Never get dressed in the morning without one of these.”
“But where have you been staying? And how come I didn’t know?”
“Like I pointed out before, you haven’t been here much these past few days. Even when you are, it’s mostly to eat, sleep, and take a shower. That means kitchen, bedroom, and bath. So I’ve been camping out down in the basement. Then, when I hear you leave the house, I come up and do what I need to do. Eat, use the bathroom. Just like you.”
“Except for the shower.”
He laughed. “Yeah, I must smell like shit by now. But I couldn’t risk taking a shower. You might’ve come home when I was using it. Besides, you could’ve spotted any dampness or water drops afterwards.”
“So you’ve been my secret roomie all week?”
“Pretty much. I ordered delivery. Using your land-line phone. Always paying cash, of course. And always getting uncooked food, sandwiches, cereals and the like, so there’d be less chance of any latent smells.”
“Very clever.”
“Naturally, I washed any cup or utensil I used. I also made sure everything looked exactly the same as the last time you’d used it. I happen to be pretty damn compulsive when it comes to cleanliness, so it wasn’t hard to do. Especially given my eye for detail. After all those years at the Bureau, I’m good at noting exactly how a room is set up, where items are placed, and replicating it.”
I let out a low whistle. “It’s unbelievable.”
“Believe it.”
He got up to get another refill. I couldn’t even imagine how much caffeine he’d been consuming. All in an effort to stay awake.
“I can see how you’ve gone through the coffee. I guess you had it delivered, too.”
“Yes. And poured it into your large cannister here, so that the level stayed the same. I also bagged all my trash separately and walked the bags down the block. Tossed them in one of your neighbor’s bins.”
“You’re lucky they didn’t see you.”
“I was careful to make sure they didn’t. But it wasn’t hard. Who goes out in this weather?”
He rejoined me at the table. “Regardless, you did almost catch me once. Couple nights back.”
“I did?”
“I was in the basement, same as always. I use my overcoat down there as a makeshift mattress. When I can’t keep myself awake anymore, and have to rest. I mean, I tried using the workout bench to sleep, but the leather’s so cracked and worn it hurt my back.”
“My apologies.”
“Really, Doc. You gotta spring for some new equipment someday. It’s embarrassing. Anyway, I heard you up here. You’d showered, gone to bed. But I guess you couldn’t sleep, because all of a sudden I hear you open the door to the basement. Start coming down.”
“You’re right. I was too wired to sleep, so I went downstairs to work out.”
“Luckily, I wasn’t asleep either. I grabbed up my coat and ran into the furnace room. I’d just closed the door when you flipped on the track lights.”
I absorbed that. “You mean you were crammed into the furnace room the whole time I was working out?”
“Oh yeah. Hotter than hell in there, too. Stifling. Kinda ironic, given how goddam cold it’s been all week. I thought I was gonna asphyxiate. Finally, you wore yourself out on the heavy bag and went back upstairs. Man, I was never so glad to get outta someplace in my life.”
Barnes sat back in his chair, gesturing at the files he’d spread on the table.
“When you didn’t come home last night, I figured you’d crashed somewhere else. Girlfriend’s house or whatever. So I started looking through the files.”
“Is this the first time you’ve gone through them?”
“Yeah. The thing is, I only just caught sig
ht of them on the rolltop yesterday. I’d always made a point of staying out of the front room, or any room I didn’t need to be in. But then, coming out of the bathroom, I spotted the stack of folders out of the corner of my eye. Different angle of the light or something. I couldn’t be sure what they were, but I had to check them out. Just in case they related to Jessup.”
“Alcott gave them to me. He said they were updated to include the latest forensics on the letters Jessup received in prison.”
“I can see that. I’ve just given them a cursory look, but I may already have a few ideas…”
“God knows we could use them,” I conceded.
His voice slipped into a lower register. “Yes, I heard about Claire Cobb on your radio. Damn shame.”
“I know. I screwed up. Badly.”
“You also look like you paid the price for it. What exactly happened, anyway?”
I told him. He listened without comment.
Then I looked down at the mug in my hands. “I only knew Claire a short while, but I liked her. A lot. She was…” I hesitated. “I know this is stupid, and banal, but she was too goddam young to die. Especially like that. Just a senseless waste of a life.”
To my surprise, when I glanced up again, Barnes’ returning gaze was somber, reflective. Sleep-deprived eyes pale and moist.
“A senseless waste,” he said quietly. “Yeah. I know what you mean. I felt the same way when my wife…when she died. Cancer. Afterwards, I just…I mean, I didn’t know such pain was possible. Or bearable. What really made no sense to me was how I was supposed to go on. Or why.” He paused. “I guess that’s something you can relate to, eh?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
No doubt my late wife’s murder, and how I fell apart afterward, figured prominently in the bureau’s file on me.
I was also struck by this sudden illumination of his inner world, this unexpected disclosure of feeling. Whether due to simple exhaustion, stress, or the lingering effects of his punishing night terrors, Barnes was letting me see a rare, unalloyed vulnerability. Giving me a window into his carefully crafted solitude.
“Not that I ever let her know how I felt when she was alive,” he went on. “Hell, she used to say she wondered if I ever felt anything…”
I shrugged. “In my experience, sometimes it’s men like that who feel more deeply than anyone else.”
“Or else that’s just therapeutic bullshit.” He straightened in his chair, as though physically pulling himself back from his past and its sorrows. “I warned you, Doc, don’t try building some lame-ass clinical rapport with me. Last thing I need is therapy.”
“Maybe.” Bringing some edge to my own voice as well. “But what you do need is a shower. And a change of clothes. I have some in my bedroom closet that might fit. Now that you’re officially my house guest, please feel free…”
A brisk smile. “At last. Providing something I can actually use. Won’t they kick you out of the Fraternal Order of Therapists for that?”
“Damn, and I just renewed my membership…”
He wearily got to his feet. As he headed for the door, I called after him.
“Just one thing, Lyle. Something to think about in the shower.”
He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.
“Shoot.”
“You said you chose this place because you knew Alcott’s people would never think to look for you here. But a smart, experienced agent like yourself could’ve found a hundred different places to hide out. Yet you picked my house. Makes a guy like me start to wonder.”
He grimaced. “Let me guess: Unconsciously, I wanted your help. Or maybe it’s because your house represented some kind of psychological safe haven. A refuge for my poor, shattered psyche.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself. So you concur?”
His eyes narrowed.
“You’re not gonna give up, are ya, Rinaldi?”
“Probably not. And, believe me, you don’t want me to. Not if you ever want to sleep again.”
Chapter Thirty-six
While Barnes was in the shower, I poured myself a second black coffee and considered the situation.
Of course, the logical—and appropriate—thing to do was to call Neal Alcott immediately and tell him I’d found his missing retired profiler. After which Barnes would be hauled off to an undisclosed location and kept under constant guard. For his own safety, naturally. Also to spare Alcott and the bureau any further embarrassment.
As it happens, I don’t always do the logical or appropriate thing. As a therapist dealing with patients, I tend to work on a case-by-case basis. Clinically speaking, there is no one-size-fits-all approach to doing therapy. Every patient is different, as is my subjective experience of them. And theirs of me. In my view, good therapy is only possible in this kind of relational context.
Now, thinking about what to do with Lyle Barnes, I felt a similar desire to serve our relationship first. Which meant I truly believed I had the best chance to help him with his night terrors by maintaining his trust. To someone with his views concerning loyalty, turning him over to Alcott would be perceived as a betrayal. It would also be the end of any possibility of my treating him.
Besides, I told myself, Lyle Barnes was probably as safe here as he’d be anywhere. If the FBI hadn’t considered looking for him here, why would the shooter? My treating Barnes wasn’t an official part of the investigation. It was at the personal request of the director. Leaks or no leaks, it was under the task force radar. Off the books.
I drained my coffee without tasting it and rinsed the mug in the sink. Now the next thing to consider was how to approach treating the stubborn, arrogant bastard. As a stubborn, arrogant bastard myself, I suspected trying the conventional forms of treatment would prove fruitless.
For one thing, aside from medication—which Barnes had firmly ruled out—the usual treatment modalities ranged from ineffective to marginally useful. Since science wasn’t sure what caused night terrors, developing approaches to dealing with it has been difficult.
Most experts believe the condition is caused by a sudden disruption in the central nervous system, usually triggered by stress, sleep deprivation, or substance abuse. With such a broad range of potential causes, treatment options are limited to—in addition to proper medication—hypnotherapy, stress management techniques, and good old talk therapy. That is, as long as you have something to talk about.
And there’s the problem. Patients suffering from garden-variety nightmares can usually recount the content of their dreams, which perhaps can lead to interpretation. Often, once the meaning of a patient’s dream becomes clear, the therapist can aid the patient in working through its various themes. The patient may find support in leavening the anxiety and dread left in the nightmare’s wake.
Unfortunately, people with night terrors can’t find the same solace, for the simple reason that, unlike nightmares, they don’t occur during REM sleep. Typically, night terrors erupt during stage four of the sleep cycle. Which means the sufferer doesn’t remember the dream images, giving both patient and therapist very little to work with.
I put the mug back up in the cupboard and looked out the bay window above the sink. The sun was brighter now, its rays sprinkling the sluggish river below with glitter.
Leaning over, I turned the tap and splashed cold water on my face, hoping to energize my own sluggish thoughts.
There were two ways to address Barnes’ symptoms: I could urge him to explore with me the dynamics of his childhood, which, I suspected, was the source of his loner, crusader-against-evil persona. Perhaps here lay the seeds of the horrors that invaded his sleep. The problem with this approach was that it would take too long, under the present circumstances. Barnes was not in conventional, long-term therapy with me. I also was convinced he’d never agree to looking at early family material.
T
he other approach was to get him to open up about his years as a profiler. His thousands of hours of contact with the most heinous and notorius serial killers. Sociopaths who felt no remorse, no empathy. Who killed for reasons running the gamut from the deeply delusional to the coldly systematic. From the disturbed to the grandiose.
I returned to my seat at the table and looked at the files Barnes had so carefully arranged there. His work.
Yes, given who he was and what gave him meaning, the best way to address his nocturnal demons was to get him to open up about the real-life demons with whom he’d spent most of his career.
Assuming, of course, I could persuade him to do so.
***
I heard Barnes leave the bathroom and pad down the hall to my bedroom. I could also hear him muttering aloud for my benefit as he shoved hangers around in my clothes closet. Since I out-weighed him by about thirty pounds, and was slightly bigger in the chest, he’d probably have to hunt carefully for clothes that wouldn’t be too loose. Luckily, we were both equally tall.
While he looked for something to wear, I went into the front room and hauled out my laptop. Sitting at the rolltop desk, I waited for it to boot up. I had planned to take a shower myself right after Barnes, but a sudden impulse made me want to look at the YouTube video that Mr. and Mrs. Greer had made about their missing daughter.
In moments, I’d loaded it and began to watch. It was as painful to view as Angie had described, yet was so blatantly prejudicial against Wes Currim that I was amazed it hadn’t been taken down, disclaimer or not. When it ended, I glanced at the view counter below. Almost eighty thousand hits now.
Following that same inexplicable impulse, I reached for the landline phone and called information in Wheeling, West Virginia. I was directed to City Hall, then Records, then Passports. Ten minutes of my life I’d never get back.
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