Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  Her hand found mine. We sat like that for a long, unbroken moment. As the windshield began to fog. From the heat of our bodies, the twinned breath from our lungs.

  Finally, she said, “Don’t worry. I’m not gonna screw up the moment by saying we’ll always be friends.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.”

  Still clutching her hand, I leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. Drank in, for one last time, the sweet aroma of her. The silken touch of her skin to my lips.

  Then, jarringly, my cell rang. Eleanor and I both started, as though jostled from a dream.

  “Christ!” I grabbed up the phone.

  “It’s Barnes again, Doc.”

  “Lyle? Where are you now?”

  “On the road. I boosted a car from the Bureau motor pool. Look, I only got a minute, so shut up and listen. I figure I owe ya.”

  “Owe me? What are you talking about?”

  Eleanor was staring at me in confusion, but I held up a warning hand. Something in Barnes’ voice, some mix of urgency and manic excitement, worried me. I was right.

  “Let’s face it, Danny. My gut agrees with yours about Harve Randall. But guts aren’t evidence, and our guy is too smart to stick around once he knows somebody’s checking out his time logs.”

  “Shit, Lyle, what did you do?”

  “Now don’t get all pissed off, but I called Wheeling PD and asked for Randall. Identified myself as FBI. Desk guy told me Randall was on his way back to the precinct, so I asked him to patch me into his patrol car.”

  “You what?!…”

  “I got Randall on the phone and told him we knew he was the shooter. That sure got his attention.”

  I couldn’t even find words to speak.

  “C’mon, Danny. I had no choice. A guy like Randall finds out we’re circling his ass, he doesn’t just take the collar and hire a lawyer. He’s gone. In the wind.”

  “Sure, Lyle, now that you’ve warned him—”

  “But here’s the beauty part. I offered him the one sure bait he couldn’t resist. The one thing he’d have to do before taking off for parts unknown.”

  I took a breath. “You told him where to find you.”

  “And he bit! No way a determined, methodical, anal guy like that leaves town before crossing my name off his list. You know it’s true, Doc. I’m his ultimate prize. The guy who first ID’d and bagged his idol, John Jessup.”

  Phone still at my ear, I gestured to Eleanor with my free hand to start the engine. We needed to get back on the road. Fast.

  “Where are you meeting him, Lyle?”

  He hesitated. “Ya gotta understand, I was makin’ it up as I went along. Thinkin’ fast, just tryin’ to keep him talking. On the line.”

  “Where, Lyle?…”

  “Look, I just said the first thing that popped in my head. Remember Braddock, where the Bureau had me stashed in that shitty Motel 6?”

  “Yeah.”

  “When they brought me there, I noticed a big building just outside town. Some kind of abandoned steel mill.”

  “I saw it, too. Is that—?”

  “I’m meetin’ Randall at the main gate, east side of the building. The place looks like it’s been deserted for years. Like on the edge of nowhere. I gave him an hour to get there. No cops, no Feds. Just him and me, mano a mano.”

  “My God, you’re out of your fucking mind!”

  “I guess you’d know, Doc. Anyway, I gotta go. Almost there. I just called because…”

  I heard a rasping, exhausted intake of breath on the line. And wondered, for the hundredth time, how he was managing to stay upright.

  “Look, Danny,” he said quietly, “in case this thing goes sideways, do me a favor? Call up my son in Chicago and tell him…shit, just tell him his old man’s sorry. About everything. Okay?”

  I shouted into the phone. “Lyle, don’t! Please—”

  But the line had gone dead.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  I’d looked over at Eleanor, but hadn’t had to say a word. She put her unmarked in gear, did a squealing U-turn and sped up the street, back the way we’d come. By the time we were driving up the highway on-ramp, she’d reached out her open window, put the mobile warning light on the roof, and hit the siren.

  As we headed east, toward Braddock, I gave her a brief recap of what Barnes had said. And was on his way to do.

  “Lunatic,” was her only comment, before grabbing up her dashboard mike and calling for backup. From both the Pittsburgh PD and the Braddock local blues.

  “Have them alert the FBI, too,” I said. “If they can get past all the bullshit gatekeepers. Alcott and his people know the location.”

  As she explained the situation to the dispatcher in her clear, unhurried voice, I replayed my conversation with Barnes. Something else had finally become clear.

  I’d always been troubled by the illogical pattern of the shootings. The geographic inefficiency of the order of the murders. First, Earl Cranshaw in Steubenville, Ohio. Then Judge Ralph Loftus here in Pittsburgh. Then back to Ohio—Cleveland, this time—for the initial failed attempt on ADA Claire Cobb.

  I realized now that Harve Randall hadn’t been interested in efficiency. He was killing those he held responsible for John Jessup’s death in ascending order of their importance. At least, how he saw it in his supremely rational, deeply disturbed mind.

  Cranshaw, the prison guard, may have been Jessup’s actual assailant—the serial killer had died at his hands during that riot—but he hadn’t been the one who put Jessup in prison. Cranshaw was merely a blunt instrument, as far as Randall was concerned. The smallest cog in the complex legal machinery that had victimized Jessup.

  More important to Randall was Judge Loftus, the man who’d sentenced Jessup to prison. Then, one step higher up, Claire Cobb, the ambitious assistant district attorney who’d prosecuted him. Dave Parnelli, Jessup’s ineffective defense attorney, was most likely to be next. Or else maybe the jury foreman. Regardless, there was no doubt who Harve Randall would want to save for last: Lyle Barnes, the famed FBI profiler who’d started that legal machinery going. The one most responsible for Jessup’s ultimate fate.

  Eleanor’s terse voice interrupted my thoughts.

  “Ya know, Danny, that call from Barnes doesn’t make sense. He knows what he’s doing with Randall is dangerous. Hell, it’s crazy. So why call and tell you about it? Unless he wants you to stop him…”

  I concentrated my gaze on the night-shrouded highway.

  “I doubt it. Or else he wouldn’t have waited till he was practically there to tell me. No, I’m afraid it’s something else. Think about it. Barnes has nothing left in his life. No job, no family. In his view, anyway.”

  “Are you saying…?”

  “Look, he knows there’s a good chance he’s not going to survive this encounter with Randall, and he—I think he intends to go out in a blaze of glory. And he wants me to bear witness to it.” I paused. “He wants to feel at least one tug on the other end of the rope.”

  “What?”

  “Nevermind.”

  Her hands tightened on the wheel. “Well, even if you’re right, he’s not gonna get his wish. You hearin’ me, Danny? When we get to this old deserted mill or whatever, we stay in the car, wait for backup…”

  “By that time, it may be too late. And you know it.”

  “Okay. Then you stay in the car, and I’ll—”

  “Not gonna happen, El. And you know that, too.”

  “For God’s sake, look at you! You’re the walking wounded. Remember, I saw how messed up you are—!”

  I jabbed my forefinger toward the windshield.

  “Here come the Braddock exits. Take the second one and hang a left.”

  Still fuming, she peered ahead, smoothly changing lanes and angling onto the correct off-ramp
. Slowing just enough to keep us from going through the guardrail as we curved around, then speeding up again on the surface road.

  “We’re not through talkin’ about this, Danny.” As she wove in and out of traffic, oncoming vehicles moving to the curb before our wailing siren and flashing light.

  “Maybe you’re not, Detective, but I am. I’m going in after Barnes, with or without you. Feel free to arrest me afterwards.”

  Too focused on her driving to argue further, at least at the moment, she grudgingly followed my directions. Which I silently hoped, given my unfamiliarity with the town, would prove correct.

  We’d gone a dozen blocks down the main steet when I spotted the abandoned steel mill I’d seen that time before, from the back seat of Alcott’s town car. Its long, saw-toothed silhouette loomed black against the blacker night, the knobbed buildings and spindly towers like the bleak, skeletal remains of some huge prehistoric creature.

  Eleanor had seen it too, and turned onto the next side street we came to. This led to an unlit, winding dirt road, at whose end was a corrugated metal sign that rose up suddenly from the darkness, ablaze in the glow of our headlights. Extruded block letters, stained and paint-flecked, indicated the twin entrances to the mill, east and west. We followed the arrow pointing east, and were soon rumbling along ice-encrusted gravel toward the sagging wire-mesh fence that formed a wide oval around the plant.

  When we reached the east entrance, we passed through a tall, rusted gate which had recently been forced open. Its lower struts had gouged a curved groove in the frozen earth, and a chain dangled from the gate’s broken lock.

  A hundred yards ahead, two empty vehicles were parked at sharp angles to the massive steel doors of the east entrance. One was an unmarked sedan, presumably the car Barnes had stolen from the FBI motor pool. The other was a police cruiser, bearing the insignia of the Wheeling PD.

  No other cars were in sight. Nor did I hear the sound of approaching sirens. Or FBI choppers.

  I glanced over at Eleanor, who was slowly bringing her car to a stop behind the other two vehicles.

  “Backup’s not on-scene yet,” she murmured, as much to herself as to me.

  Almost at the same time, we peered up through the windshield at the shadowy expanse of buildings that stood, silent and implacable, before us. And whose length receded back into the maw of night, as though swallowed by it.

  “Damned thing must be a mile long, all told.” I squinted at the ribbed, elongated shapes and uneven array of smoke stacks. The windowless, black-bricked walls and slanted roofs.

  I turned to Eleanor’s profile.

  “They’re in there. Both of them.” My voice an awed whisper, as though the dark, somber buildings themselves could hear. “Somewhere.”

  She nodded, lips pursed. Then she cut the engine, unholstered her service weapon, and opened her door. The ceiling light came on, bright, ghostly white.

  I readied myself for another round of protests from Eleanor, but instead she merely looked at me. A kind of sad, knowing resignation in her eyes.

  “C’mon, then.”

  Before I could respond, she’d unclipped a sturdy, department-issue flashlight from below the dashboard and tossed it to me.

  Without another word, we got out of the car.

  Chapter Fifty

  There was no lock on the massive entrance doors, so I was able to carefully shove one of them open, its rusted hinges creaking, and we were inside.

  I aimed my flashlight beam at the floor and spotted a thick industrial lock whose hasp had been twisted awry, as though by a crowbar. Or, more likely, a tire iron.

  Eleanor read my mind. “Randall’s armed with more than a gun.”

  She was right behind me, having withdrawn a small but powerful flashlight of her own from her belt. In her other hand was her service piece, a 9 mm Glock.

  I took a few measured steps forward, the soles of my shoes scraping on the steel sheets that served as flooring. I shone my light ahead. The thin metal squares had been laid atop a concrete foundation like poorly-spaced tiles, their edges overlapping, creating a treacherous, uneven path beneath us. Combined with the freezing, unremitting darkness, they forced us to move excruciatingly slowly and carefully across the mill’s expanse.

  Fine with me, since my every movement brought a stab of pain. My ribs ached, and my shoulders were stiff, as though cased in cement. Plus I could barely turn my head.

  All of which I did my best to hide from Eleanor.

  Meanwhile, swinging my light in small, discrete arcs as we crept into its cavernous mouth, I slowly formed some kind of mental picture of the desolate structure. Huge machinery webbed with dust and grime, great coils of steel resting in shadowed corners. Piles of two-by-fours. Rusted trash bins. A row of foremen’s cubicles lining one side, their Plexiglas walls cracked and smoke-stained.

  From every corner came the hushed, skittering sounds of the mill’s current inhabitants. Rats, mice. Raising the hairs on the back of my neck. Once, as I trained my flashlight beam across wire cables hanging haphazardly from the ceiling, a pair of bats flew out from some unseen perch. Startled, I reeled back. I also heard, right at my heels, Eleanor’s muffled gasp of surprise.

  But neither of us said a word. Not daring to speak, in case Randall was somewhere near enough to hear, Eleanor and I had been communicating with a series of shoulder taps. Move left here, watch your step there.

  Turning, I looked into her violet eyes, shining in the glow of her upraised light. A kind of silent reassurance passed between us, then she lowered her flashlight again.

  I exhaled slowly and went another few feet into the frigid, musty gloom, ears pricked for any telltale sound. Any fix on where either Randall or Barnes might be.

  Suddenly, I heard something. Or thought I did. A panicked voice, crying out—?

  Which made me careless. I hastened my steps and—

  Collided with a thick, hanging chain. Rattling noisily in the dark, its cold, intertwined links raked my face. I stumbled backwards, then righted myself and traced its length with my flashlight. Attached to its end was a huge clawed hook that twisted and swayed from the impact.

  Eleanor’s fingers rested on my shoulder.

  “You okay?” she whispered.

  I nodded. Taking a breath, I trained my light upwards and caught sight, far above us, of a large overhead crane. Its glass-enclosed operator’s cab hung like a dark cocoon from beneath twin wheeled tracks embedded in the ceiling. Two sets of those massive, twined chains—one of which I’d walked into—dangled from the floor of the cab.

  Frustrated, I wiped my brow with my forearm. Risked the words. “At this rate, we’ll never—”

  We both heard it at the same time.

  A gunshot. Echoing sharply. A metallic reverberation that shattered the opaque silence of the long-dead mill.

  Eleanor pointed with her light. “This way!”

  She took off at a run, heedless of the darkness and the maze of unseen obstacles. With effort, I caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She whirled, eyes wide.

  I jerked my thumb to my right, and she immediately saw what I’d noticed. A long, raised conveyor belt that ran along the wall for half the length of the building. Its cracked, ribbed loading band stretched atop great, rivet-encircled wheels that hadn’t turned in many, many years.

  I gingerly climbed up on top of the belt, pulling her behind me. Ignoring the jolts of pain shooting up my injured arm. We’d just gotten to our feet on the broad, uneven band when a second shot rang out.

  “Hurry!”

  Eleanor raised her gun hand and started running again, down the length of the conveyor belt. I did the best I could to match her stride.

  Then, abruptly, we reached the end of the belt’s thick rubber tongue. It extended into a wide slot that fed a three-story-high array of machinery, all hinged struts and massive,
time-frozen gears. Another opening to the right of the structure led to a cracked, sloping concrete ramp. Swinging my light wildly about, I soon found out why.

  I nudged Eleanor and we both came to stand at the conveyor’s edge. Below us, matching nearly the length of the belt, was what looked like an open subway tunnel. Twin locomotive tracks were embedded in its floor, at the end of which stood a flatbed train car. Steel wheels locked. Silent, dust-draped and long-stilled.

  Along the tunnel’s far side was a series of garage-sized, vertical-hanging iron doors. Something tugged at my memory, and I suddenly recalled hearing about them from a fellow undergrad at college, who’d spent summers working in a steel mill. Behind these doors, I realized, were vast brick ovens, fed by the adjacent blast furnace, in which new rolled steel was “cooked.” Prepared to be shaped into car fenders, battleship plating, girders…

  “Danny!” Eleanor’s voice an urgent whisper. “Look!”

  She played her flashlight beam across the width of the tunnel and aimed it at one of the iron doors. Though, at this distance, it was barely visible in the feeble light, I saw what she had seen. The door to the massive oven hung halfway down. Probably rusted in place a long time ago.

  I knew instantly what she was thinking. From what we’d heard, the gunshots must’ve come from there.

  Not taking time to think about it, I launched myself off the edge of the belt into the tunnel. Landing with bone-rattling impact between the set of train tracks, feet buried up to the calves in sand. I glanced back up at Eleanor. Then she too leapt from the belt.

  I pointed my flashlight beam before us and we started moving awkwardly through caked, clumped sand that hadn’t been disturbed in years. Using our outstretched arms for balance, we stumbled across the width of the tunnel to the far wall, then sidled quickly along its length till we came to the half-opened oven.

  Though I said nothing to Eleanor as we clambered under the two-ton iron door, I would have welcomed the sound of another gunshot. Or any sound at all. It was the ominous silence that was worrying me.

  Had Harve Randall finally done what he’d long planned? Was Lyle Barnes already dead?