And then, as sudden as the screams came, the voice of his long time companion vanished.
Conscience? Are you there? Are you?
Richard called out for the comfort of the voice in his head. All he found was empty space and the ruling white light, now filling every inch of his hypnotic vista. The foreign voice from earlier had returned, now clear and close, a deep gentle laugh, a selfish revel of victory, a perfunctory exclamation: He’s gone, Richard. It’s just you and me now.
Before Richard could find the strength within to respond, the all-encompassing white light began throbbing like a heart, slowly at first, then to a rate consistent with a strobe. It blinded Richard, and he cupped a palm around his brow to mask the painful glare. A high whistling noise ensued, radiating sharp tones deep inside his ear. He closed his eyes, pressed his hands against the sides of his head as if trying to keep the pain from imploding his skull. His skin stung. Every hair on his body stood on end, electrically charged. His nerves teased every pore on his skin. He lost all feeling in his legs, and he collapsed to the floor.
Then something incredible happened.
Like a flower opening, the white light split down the center, first a crack, then wider. From within, a blackness seeped out, swallowing the edges of the white, a sunburst in negative. It glimmered for a moment, then changed.
Then, riding the cushion of black, he saw it. A stunning blue light, emerging from the white light.
The blue light.
It expanded rapidly, devouring the white light in mere seconds. Richard’s hypnotic vista glowed blue, and he lay back in a familiar position, as if lying in bed, waiting to see what--whom--it brought today. First, a tiny hand, then the pure golden curls of Debra, the four year-old daughter he never had the chance to know. Her skin was white and pure amidst the cobalt illumination, her eyes blue and glowing. Her brow was downcast, a frown pasted on her face.
Richard reached out to her. Debra, honey...it’s me. Daddy.
Tears filled her eyes. Not tears of sadness. Or happiness. But those unique tears that race down over suddenly flushed cheeks when a child is in pain.
Honey...what’s wrong?
And then a hand appeared, swathed in black. It came across in front of Debra, a glint of steel meeting Richard’s eye as it pressed a thick-bladed knife against her unblemished throat. A second gloved hand emerged from the light. It grabbed the child by the hair, twisting her head sideways so the knife pressed sharply against her jugular. Debra let out a cry as a thin point of blood appeared and trickled down her neck into her shirt.
Richard wanted to scream no! but his consternation had his throat bundled up in nerves. Did it make sense to yell at an apparition anyway? He searched for his conscience, but as expected, it was gone. He peered back at his daughter, at the hands, and the trickle of red amidst all that was blue. He closed his eyes, wished it away as he did moments earlier when turning away from his visions of murder. Go away! Please, go away! When he opened his eyes, her crying face was still there. The hands. The knife.
His face.
The masked face of the man in black, two perfect circles at the mouth and eyes revealing the slightest hint of disclosure.
It didn’t matter. Richard knew those eyes. Those lips. And when the masked man smiled and spoke, he knew those teeth, and that voice.
“It’s showtime, Sparke.”
Apartment
Moldofsky entered the foyer first, Kevin Hughes immediately behind. The small vestibule was a mere five by five-foot square, one-inch black and white tiles checkerboarding the entire floor. Brown vertical paneling covered the walls except for six small glass-fronted mailboxes to the right, tiny locks at the bottom of each one allowing access to those holding a key. Moldofsky eyed the tenants’ names printed below the locks, noting only one: apartment 5A, Pamela Bergin. There was no mail in her box, at least none that he could see without crouching.
The smell of chicken soup invaded their nostrils as Leonard pulled open the inner doorway leading into the hallway of the Washington Building. The Presidential Studios had been built years ago, the absence of a security entry system an obvious drawback to living here. Likewise, the decor, which left much to be desired, clearly lent itself to the ages. Crooked wall sconces coated in dust, rusty vents, warped crown moldings. The hallway, lined with what could have been turn-of-the-century wallpaper, boasted brown snowflake patterns on a tan background that nearly dizzied Leonard as he eyed the brown steel doors and their tarnished brass numbers. Apartment 5A was three doors down on the right.
“Smells pretty good,” Leonard said.
“Chicken soup?”
“Someone’s cooking up a storm.”
“Just like Mom used to make.”
Leonard smiled and knocked on the door. He heard footsteps approaching, then stop. The pinpoint of light in the peephole disappeared, signifying that 5A’s occupant was looking out at them. He knocked again, and the light returned. “Ms Bergin?”
No answer.
He drew out a long, impatient breath. They had another twenty minutes before Sparke’s session ended, five of those minutes needed to get back to Delaney’s office on Main Street. “Ms Bergin, this is Officer Moldofsky of the Fairview Police Department. I was hoping you’d be so kind to allow me a few moments of your time.”
More footsteps. Hurried footsteps. Then, a woman’s voice. “I’ll be right with you.”
Leonard stepped back, eyebrows raised. Kevin returned the inquisitive gesture then shrugged his shoulders, clearly unsure and perhaps anxious of what to expect when Pamela opened the door. Although Leonard rarely assumed anything uncustomary when conducting routine situations such as this--questioning the populace usually ended uneventfully--today’s circumstances seemed to be nudging them toward an occurrence worthy of their precautions. Or so his intuitions led him to believe. And that placed him in agreement with Kevin. That something curious might happen.
More footsteps. A lock clicked, a security-chain was unhooked, and the door opened.
A very attractive woman appeared in the doorway, shoulder-length chestnut hair framing a dark complexion that housed crystal blue eyes perfectly capable of hypnotizing any man that got in their way. The sudden smile on Kevin’s face attested to this, and Leonard made sure he’d get Kevin back for his earlier ribbing about Samantha Sparke.
“Ms. Bergin?”
She smiled, pure pearls for teeth. “Yes?”
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about a call we received earlier today.”
Pam nodded. “Of course...is there something wrong?”
“No...we’re...” Leonard hesitated, now remembering his primary purpose for coming here in the first place. Damn, he’d been distracted, talking so much about Sparke’s past, and then really, Pamela’s hypnotizing looks. Her near perfect looks. And he wasn’t solely contemplating nature’s graces towards her, or the way she applied her make-up, or her sly charming ways. No. He was thinking about her injuries, or lack thereof, as there wasn’t a scar nor a scab to be seen on her. No wounds at all to corroborate Richard’s neighbor’s reports of an injured woman--a bloodied woman--running from his condo. Leonard remembered what Sparke had said in defense, that she’d cut her hand on a knife. He tried to peek down at her hands but they were buried in her pockets.
“We’d like to...” he continued, then said, “It’s about a friend of yours. Richard Sparke.”
Pam stepped aside, not a twitch of emotion registering on her face at the mention of Sparke. “Come in, then.” They followed her inside, Leonard at once taking in the small studio residence. Its contents were sparse to say the least, an unmade twin bed in one corner, a kitchenette in another, a small metal desk with nothing on it centering the room. The desk sat alongside a threadbare couch which faced a small television atop a red milk crate. Paltry lifestyle for someone who could easily utilize her looks for success.
Pamela closed the door behind them, shutting out the strong chicken soup aroma. “Please don
’t mind the mess. I’ve got a good deal of my things still in storage. I haven’t yet gotten a chance to get them here. And what’s here so far isn’t really set up. I didn’t want to arrange anything until all my belongings arrived.”
“You’re new to Fairview?” Leonard asked, already suspicious of her story. He liked the way she looked, but didn’t trust her. For now.
“You could say that. About four months.” She stood unmoving, like a boulder, watching the two cops with those big blue eyes that might have given any man an immediate impression of self-absorbed shallowness. Leonard, more inquisitive, might have felt that way if it weren’t for her relationship with Sparke, which led him to believe that she possessed far more intelligence than she cared to admit, keeping it carefully veiled and to her advantage should she need to talk her way out of a jam. Perhaps like Sparke had this morning.
“You like it here?” Leonard asked.
She nodded, pacing slowly across the room. She sat on a white plastic chair next to a matching table in the kitchenette. She crossed her legs and gripped her knees with both hands, finally exposing them to Leonard in an almost deliberate display. They were clean, unblemished. She possessed no injuries whatsoever.
Sly lady, Leonard thought, peeking over at Kevin. His partner was checking out her hands too. He then peered back at Leonard. Kevin seemed to be thinking Leonard’s own exact thoughts: So Sparke was lying after all. This isn’t the injured woman the neighbors saw running from his condo. It must have been someone else. Kevin sneezed as he took out his pad and began jotting notes.
“Ms Bergin, we received a call today from a couple of Mr Sparke’s neighbors. This morning, about nine, they claimed to have seen a woman fitting your description fleeing his condo. She had an injury of some sort, on her hands or face, they couldn’t be certain exactly where. But there was blood. And that we can confirm. When we went to Mr Sparke’s condo soon thereafter, we found him cleaning up a mess of it on the floor.”
Pamela looked surprised, mouth open slightly, eyebrows arched into a triangle of inquisitiveness. Leonard couldn’t be certain if her concern was genuine or not, whether she’d known about--perhaps supplied--the blood. Regardless, she offered her most forthright dialogue. “My God...is Richard all right?”
Leonard nodded. “Yes, he’s fine. Were you there this morning, Ms Bergin? At Richard’s condo?”
She shook her head. “This morning? No. We had dinner together last night at his place, watched a bit of TV, but then I went home.”
“You didn’t spend the night?”
Pam pursed her lips. “No. Richard has this thing about me spending the night.”
“A thing?”
She hesitated, and Leonard thought she might’ve just revealed something she didn’t really plan to. She appeared to be gathering some thoughts when she said, “He’s a bit old-fashioned.”
Old-fashioned, my ass, Leonard thought. Nobody sane is gonna send this beauty home because of old-fashioned notions. That’s a lie, bet your ass on that one, Ms Bergin.
Leonard was about to pursue this line of conversation when Kevin sneezed again, then rubbed his nose. “Excuse me,” he said, then added, “Ms Bergin, do you have a cat?”
“No, I don’t.”
He sneezed again. “I’m sorry, but I have an allergy to cats and it makes me sneeze and sneeze like this until my eyes start tearing, which they’re about to do right now.”
Leonard smiled, a bit frustrated at the interruption but suddenly triggered with a thought. Kevin, read my mind. “Kevin, why don’t you go wait outside. I’ll be there in a minute. And while you’re there, check out some of the parked cars for expired inspections.” He winked and gestured with his head towards the door. He turned toward Pamela and grinned. “Quotas.”
“Sure...okay, Len.” Kevin, sneezing crazily, nodded slightly to confirm the receipt of message, then replaced the notepad in his pocket. “Good day, Ms Bergin.” He smiled then left silently, shutting the door behind him. His sneezes could be heard until he exited the building.
Leonard was fairly confident that Kevin got the message. Having a partner that understood you was more than half the battle for success. What he wasn’t so sure about was the answer he’d get from Kevin once he met him outside.
“I think Officer Hughes has an allergy to attractive women,” Leonard said.
Pam laughed. “Either that, or chicken soup.”
They shared another laugh then Leonard got back to business, his voice purposely deep and serious, and professional. “Ms Bergin...the reason why I’m here is because when we asked Richard about how all the blood ended up on his kitchen floor, he said that you were there at his condo, that the two of you had had an argument, and that you slipped and cut your hand on a knife as you grabbed the counter on the way down.”
“Richard said that, huh?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well...I’m sorry to say this...but he’s lying. Either that, or he dreamed it. The fact of the matter is that we did argue, but that was last night before I left. I didn’t fall down, and I most certainly didn’t cut myself open and bleed on his floor. Here,” she said, offering her hands. “See for yourself. No wounds.”
“I can see that.”
“And he said all this happened this morning?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Well, again, I can assure you that it wasn’t me. I was here, watching television, by myself. If there was blood on his kitchen floor, then it must have come from someone else.”
“Any idea who? I mean, I’m fairly certain that whoever left all that blood had one nasty injury.”
“I don’t know...Richard’s a bit of a recluse, and if you ask me I’d say he’s got a nice case of agoraphobia. He doesn’t have any friends that I know of. He rarely leaves his home except to go to the shrink, or the bookstore. Or get some food. I really have no idea who might’ve been there with him this morning.”
Leonard nodded. “Do you have any clue as to why Richard might be lying?”
“None whatsoever. It doesn’t make any sense. But I will tell you that Richard has had some personal problems. Problems which have recently led us to arguing more often than not.”
“What kind of problems?”
“Anxiety. Depression. Look, he’s a great guy, but as you may already know, he’s had some tragedy in his life.”
Depression. I can relate. But can I really? I still have my wife. My kid. Heck, Sparke has a lot more to be depressed about than I do. Maybe I’m just bored at home. Just bored. “Yes, I’m aware of the death of his baby daughter.”
“That, along with his divorce, and then his mother passing away.”
“When did that happen?”
“A few years ago. But it still pains him greatly. Look, again, he’s a great guy, gentle, kind, and caring. But he’s really wrapped up.”
Leonard collected his thoughts, then after a few seconds, continued. “Ms Bergin, has Richard ever discussed with you his past relationship with his ex-wife Samantha?”
She leaned an elbow on the table and closed her eyes for a moment. “Not really, other than they’d had a tough time together and grew apart after Debra’s death.”
“So...he never told you about the night she was attacked?”
Pam hesitated, blue eyes wide as half-dollars. “No...he didn’t.”
Leonard looked at his watch. 2:48. Sparke’s session ended at three. “Ms Bergin, I need to attend to something else right now. If you don’t mind, I’d like for you to call me on my cell phone tonight. There’s a few more things we need to discuss, and I’d be happy to elaborate regarding the incident with his wife, something I think you should be made aware of.”
“Sure, okay.” She grabbed a pencil and a piece of paper from the kitchenette table and scribbled Moldofsky’s name and number down. “When’s a good time to reach you?”
“Try me after six. I should be at my desk for most of tonight.” Most of the night, no doubt about that now. Leonard’s inquis
itive nature gave him the sudden and overwhelming desire to look into a few more things about Richard Sparke, and he knew it would more than likely take him into the late hours. Janice will love me even less now. Day by day, a little less of her husband and more and more of an empty home that by now seems much more familiar without me. And my son? God knows what he thinks of me these days. I’m up in years, balding. God almighty, listen to me, projecting my own mid-life insecurities on him! He loves me! I’m his father for Christ’s sake! What I should do is forget about Sparke, go home and spend the night talking to Greg for a change. Janice too. She’s always been there for me. Maybe now’s the time for me to be there for her?
“Officer?”
Leonard shook away the reverie. “Yes...I...I’m sorry. I was lost in thought for a moment.”
Pamela stood, using her palms to straighten out her jeans. “I’ll phone you this evening then.”
“Yes,” Leonard said. “That would be fine. I’ll wait for your call.”
He tipped his hat and exited the apartment. Before leaving the building he stood in the hallway just outside Pam’s door, keeping an open ear for a moment to see if she made any phone calls; Leonard thought she might warn Richard of their ‘snooping’. When he heard only silence, he left, stepping out into the foyer, and then outside.
Kevin stood on the cement walkway, arms crossed, a smug grin plastered on his face.
“Okay sneezy, spill it. What’d you find?”
“Len...have I got something to show you!”
Showtime
The man in black’s gloved hand gripped Richard’s neck, a repeat performance of two years ago: the same night Richard awoke to find Samantha beside him, nearly beaten to death. Numerous times since then, the dream-intruder had tried to attack Richard, but had never managed to place a damaging hand on him. Still the intruder persevered, coming in and out of the blue light on many occasions, only to shout idle threats and take disorderly swipes at the air as if something physical had held him back. Time and time again Sparke thanked his conscience for protecting him from this nighttime adversary--how it ever managed to do so, he did not know.
Sleepwalker Page 11