Sleepwalker

by Michael Laimo

  He was very hungry, but had to quell that urge for now. His first priority was to take himself as far away from civilization as possible. Not only would the man in black be looking for him, but so would the police.

  He came upon a gated road with a wooden sign that read BLEDSON STATE PARK, another smaller one that read CLOSED FOR THE SEASON dangling askew just below it. He pulled to the right and stopped the car, got out and jerked one of the wooden gates free of its hinges, opening it just wide enough so the Corolla would fit through. He got back in the car, pulled forward, then went out and closed the gate behind him.

  Upon fleeing Delaney’s office, everything around him had seemed hazy, out of focus. When he finally escaped Fairview in Samantha’s car, he’d been struck with a bolt of sensory overload, the buildings, the people, the stores and houses, looming over him like monsters, frightening him. Then, as he moved even further away, leaving the concrete structures of civilization behind, the fear faded and he’d had the impression of entering another life altogether, as if he’d once lived in the country long ago, in another time, another place, with no worries or concerns.

  Now, taking on the mountains at this much slower pace, his senses sharpened greatly, as if he were peering through a telescope in his search for a temporary sanctuary. Was this another talent? A ‘lost memory’ seeping through? Most likely, and he savored the sudden ability, every detail of the environment looking honed, magnified: the copses lining the road, the towering pines, the dust kicking up around him, everything overwhelming his senses the further he proceeded into the mountainous area.

  As the road spiraled uphill, he also noticed an effortless calm coming over him. He felt remarkably at ease, more alive and free than he’d ever felt before--despite the daunting circumstances at hand. It was as if the last three years of his life--the only life he remembered--had acted as a shroud to the quiet existence he was really meant to live. He reminded himself over and over again that regardless of the things his mind and body were now telling him--leaking all those pleasant clues to an existence he’d presumably lived prior--now was not the time to get too comfortable, or too introspective. His life was still in jeopardy.

  Before taking the car over an incline that blocked his view of the slanting land behind him, Richard peered into his rearview mirror and thought he saw the kicked-up dust of a car following him. With darkness now in command, it was difficult to be certain that this was the case; the dust could have been kicked up by his own tires. Or, it could have been from the car of someone who lived in the area. Richard wasn’t convinced of anything at the moment.

  His mind wandered again, this time envisioning poor Dr Delaney, his body sprawled and mutilated, the blood seeping out from multiple points in his body. Then Samantha, how she struggled to free herself from the ropes that cut into her skin, the bruises on her body, the blood on the knife that had been used to slice her tongue off. He kept remembering how she appeared to plead through the gag in her mouth, her naked chest heaving up and down, her masked eyes undoubtedly seeking solace in the carnage that had abruptly become of her life.

  Richard was determined not to let this happen to him.

  The road moved in a leftward curve, taking him even deeper into the brush-covered mountains. The environment was nearly black now, the moon finding no breaks in the thick canopy of pines surrounding him. This would be a good place to hide. It was out-of-the-way, seemingly uninhabited with the exception of a few spread-out cottages that may not even be occupied, given the time of season and the fact that many of them acted solely as summer getaways. The road peaked at a slope, the forested mountainside laying to his left, accentuated with queues of tall pines standing like soldiers. It was a sanctuary of nature, a land that to Richard had existed only in pictures, and on television.

  Tears welled in his eyes, his sights blurring slightly as he gently brought the car down to the bottom of the slope. He did his best to continue along the thin dark road, at times jostling over rocky debris and torn branches. He wiped his eyes, one at a time, and only when his vision cleared did Richard realize it had started raining. He searched for the wiper button and depressed it. The water was sluiced away, providing him a clear glimpse of the path ahead.

  Again he peered into the rearview mirror. The rain had swallowed the entire kick-up of dust, turning the ground to wet soil. He could see the Corolla’s tire-tracks tailing away behind him.

  Then he saw something else in the crimson glow of his tail-lights: previously hidden in the dust, a car emerging over the slope. Its lights were off.

  He stepped on the brakes and brought the Corolla to a gentle halt.

  The car behind him stopped. Surveying Richard? Waiting for his next move?

  Richard wondered, is it the man in black? Or the police? Could the police have so covertly followed him all the way up here? Certainly the unearthly man in black could have. Now he was wondering if the Corolla had left a set of tire tracks all the way up here. If this were the case, then he’d inadvertently left his followers a trail of breadcrumbs leading directly to their target.

  The car turned its lights on.

  It started down the hill after him.

  Richard took his foot off the brake and moved forward at a careful pace, not exactly sure what to do, or where he would end up. He hadn’t been too far from stopping for the night when the mysterious car showed up. Now he wasn’t sure how he was going to lose it.

  Think, Richard...if the man in black is in that car, then what do you suppose might be going through his mind? Think...it’s your only strategy.

  Conscience, I could sure use you now.

  In place of his conscience, Richard invited his newfound sense of strategy to come up with an answer to his question. Like a snapshot, the thought of something intriguing came into his mind. The man in black was most likely wondering what Richard’s plans were out here. Hiding perhaps? Devising a cautionary, revengeful plot? Yes, Richard liked the way that sounded, and if it turned out to be an accurate deduction, then his adversary would be on the defensive right now--on a tentative lookout. For all the man in black might be thinking, Richard Sparke could very well be waiting for him to approach, a sweaty trigger-finger on a loaded gun.

  Didn’t need you for that one, Mr Conscience. Came up with it all by myself. You’d’ve been proud.

  No time for additional introspection. Ahead the road slumped into a depression, then appeared to pass through a small silt-filled stream. He brought the car to the edge of the channel then without further thought let it down easily. When he reached bottom the inevitable happened: the Corolla’s tires skidded in the fresh mud, digging themselves into the soft earth and securely anchoring the car. The rain started falling harder. Even if he were able to free the car now, there would be no way to make it back up the slippery incline. Damn rain!

  He had no choice but to run.

  He jumped from the car and dashed toward a channel where another slightly larger current veined into the first one, adjacent to the thin road he’d driven on. Here he crouched down and hid as he scurried along.

  Cold rain pelted his skin. His heart began to pound, all prior thoughts of peace and quietude long destroyed by fear, anxiety, and the will to survive. He raced forward, nearly falling as his feet splashed in a seep of water. The noise of it seemed to echo throughout the mountains. Richard feared it may have indicated his location to the man in black, even through the static pattering of rainfall.

  How are you so damn sure it’s the man in black?

  Holy shit! Conscience? Is that you?

  He received no answer, ignoring his assumption for the time being. For a moment he wondered if his ‘follower’ was still above in his car, waiting anxiously for Richard to reappear on the opposite side of the trough. The pursuer wouldn’t follow Richard down into it. That would trap him. No. He’d wait. Then cautiously get out of the car and peek over the edge.

  What if it isn’t the man in black? Richard asked himself. What if it’s...someone who mig
ht be able to help me? Offer me a place to hide?

  Curious, and perhaps foolish, Richard ran around the side of the stream, tailing back now in the direction from which he came. Using the darkness as camouflage, hiding behind trees, peeking through the tangle of thick and thin trunks, he looked for the car. Not in his line of sight yet. He climbed up a slope, sneakers slipping in damp needles, leaves, and brush. He slowed, securing a grip with his footsteps, moving forward, toes digging into the wet earth and carrying him upwards until he could finally see over the curved edge.

  He heard the car idling, saw the reflective glow of its headlights, but still didn’t see it. The damp ground had absorbed the noise of his footsteps, and the only noise came from the heave of his tired lungs, which he fought terribly to temper. He turned to the right, then saw the car, white, twenty feet away, its highbeams igniting the woodland. Rain splashed up like sparks in the headlights, hot steam rising from the edges of the car’s hood.

  The engine suddenly ceased, silencing the night. Richard ducked down behind the slope. He heard the door opening, footsteps squishing on the soppy land. Shivering, he rubbed the rain from his eyes, still hidden yet quite anxious to find out who it was that followed him. Might be a local looking out for his land. The footsteps tailed away, towards the trough. Stopped. Waited. Then, returned. This time closer to the edge where Richard was hiding. Whoever it was, they’d spotted Richard’s empty car at the bottom of the trough, and was now circling the channel, looking for him.

  The footsteps squished closer. Richard hunched down and felt something cold and hard digging into his leg. He grimaced in pain. In an instant he realized what was causing the discomfort. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the screwdriver he’d taken from the truck in the parking lot. He’d forgotten he still had it.

  His hand gripped it tightly, the blade poised for attack. He listened for the footsteps, tried to imagine at which point overhead they would appear. Suddenly, he saw an outline, that of a head peeking over the edge of the slope. Dark-topped. A mask he thought. It was looking down at him.

  He took the blade and swung it in the general area where he imagined the man in black’s leg to be. He missed, caught in the momentum of his dizzying thrust. He fell forward, catching a faceful of cold muddy earth.

  A determined knee speared the center of his back. A hand grabbed his hair, pulled his head skyward, exposing his neck to the elements.

  A cold circle of steel pressed against his temple. It sent shudders throughout his wracked body. Shit. A gun.

  He cried out, an effort for mercy fully rebuffed. The follower flipped Richard over as if he were a charred burger. He closed his eyes, expecting his life to disappear with a sudden, blinding explosion. When silenced followed, he opened his eyes and encountered a looming face inches beyond the barrel of the pistol--still aimed at his head, now between the eyes--a face so unexpected that it stopped him from swinging the screwdriver in a last desperate stab of defense.

  The brown-haired, green-eyed face of Pamela Bergin.

  Notebook

  “Most of the evidence gathered at the scene becomes supplemental to the print, now that we have a match.” Leonard returned to his desk and slid the printouts he made of the fingerprints back into the envelope, along with the 3.5” disc. Kevin helped himself to another cup of coffee from the station brew, sipped it and grimaced as he sat down beside Leonard.

  “Are we going to look at all the other evidence before we dive into Sparke’s file?”

  “That’s the next step--get the smaller things out of the way. Makes for a nice build of suspense, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Kevin retrieved a composition notebook from atop a nearby filing cabinet, opened it and jotted a header on the first page. He was now prepared to take detailed notes on the articles they’d gathered at Delaney’s office. Leonard set the box on the desk before them and removed the files; two were labeled ‘Richard Sparke’, with two thinner ones having ‘related research’ written on the tabs. He set them both aside. Next he took out the post it notes, seven in total, finding nothing but trivial reminders on them, all regarding appointments with various clients. One, which was penned over and over in thick black ink, read SPARKE TODAY!!!. As Kevin scribbled notes on the items, Leonard said, “Make sure you get all that into the computer by tomorrow.”

  He reached into the box and took out Delaney’s notebook, black and white composition-style, identical to the one Kevin had in his lap. It had been unused prior to today’s meeting with Richard. The first page contained some random scribblings, sloppily scrawled out in black ink. It took a bit of deciphering to make out what it said, and based on the first few sentences, would take some additional detective work to assess what Delaney was thinking at the time. Leonard backtracked and read everything out loud so Kevin could hear:

  Sparke’s paranoia growing. Dreams of dead mother, dead daughter remain, signifies outgrowth of PTSD. Sleepwalking still evident, dreams of ghostly lights increasing. Claims more than one light. Dreams of twin-nemesis, highly active sleepwalking activity.

  Amnesia still present...still remembers dreams.

  Paranormal activity highly probable!!!

  Hypnosis...necessary.

  “Note for the record that Delaney drew a small smiley face next to the word hypnosis.”

  “So what’s it all mean?” Kevin asked. “What’s PTSD?”

  “Post traumatic stress disorder.” Leonard remembered coming across the term while researching his own stresses and anxieties on the web. About time some of that paid off.

  “And what about ‘twin nemesis’? Think Sparke has some sort of imaginary friend?”

  “I think Sparke has a few screws loose. Looks like he’s got some serious sleep disorders too. Much more than just the sleepwalking he told me about two years ago. What’s that all about?” he said, pointing to an entry in the book.

  “Delaney’s claiming paranormal activity. Weird.”

  “Wait, there’s more,” Leonard noted, turning the page.

  Richard susceptible...very good!

  Answers to questions truthful...memory reintroduced while under hypnosis!

  Claims multiple personalities. Retains knowledge of multiple events.

  Indicates something about an experiment.

  BLUE LIGHT!

  NEME

  “Note for the record that the words ‘blue light’ and ‘neme’ are written in caps, signifying the doctor’s excitement, or fear maybe. Also note that there are some droplets of blood on page two.”

  “Got it.”

  “From what I can gather, it looks as though the doctor had succeeded in putting Sparke under hypnosis. I’m basing this on the ‘susceptible’ note, and then the line after that about him getting his memory back. All these scribblings on page two must have come after Sparke was hypnotized.”

  “Go back,” Kevin said, waving his index finger over the notebook.

  Leonard turned back to page one. “Here,” Kevin pointed out. “It refers to a ‘twin nemesis’. And then on page two at the end he starts writing ‘nemesis’, but is abruptly cut off.”

  “Nemesis. Hmm...you’re right. He starts to write it, and then he is either killed, or interrupted at the moment. Could this be our third person?”

  “Delaney refers it as a ‘twin’? What do you think that means?”

  “Could be some brand of psychological lingo referring to a dual personality uncovered during Sparke’s hypnotic state.”

  “So Sparke, it seems, may have murdered Delaney under the guise of one of his personalities. That could explain why, to us, Sparke seems innocent of his crimes, even though the evidence still points to him. Because he doesn’t remember ever doing it.”

  “That accounts for Delaney’s note on amnesia.”

  “Could Sparke’s ‘twin personality’ justify the actions of the third party we’ve come to assume?”

  Leonard paused, thinking about that for a second. “We’d have to go back and list everything we di
scussed to be accurate. Off the top of my head, I’d say some items could be explained away. But not everything. It doesn’t account for the fact that Carol Davis saw two people leaving Delaney’s office: Sparke, and then the man who bumped into her. And then, of course, it doesn’t explain the blood on Sparke’s kitchen floor. We still don’t know who that came from.”

  “Too bad we don’t have a sample of that now,” Kevin said. “We could have used it.”

  Leonard looked at Kevin, smiled. “Good idea.” He grabbed the telephone handset from its cradle on the desk. “Let’s see if we can’t have someone collect it tonight and get it to George. It’ll arrive a day late to the lab, but the PCR won’t have the results from the knife and books until the day after tomorrow anyway.”

  Leonard got Captain Reese on his cell phone.

  “Reese.”

  “Moldofsky here. Any sign of Sparke?”

  “Nothing yet. How’re you making out on your end?”

  “Good, so far. Prints match Sparke’s.”

  “Bingo.”

  “We’re checking all the gathered evidence now. Based on the nurse’s story, we’re still looking into the possibility of another party being involved. We’ll let you know what we come up with.”

  “Thanks Len. We’re at Sparke’s residence now. Nothing out of the ordinary-”

  “Wait...you’re at Sparke’s? What luck!”

  “What is it, Len?”

  “Captain...I need you to do something for me. Earlier today...” He hesitated, realizing that he didn’t want to discuss this matter until later. Too late. “Earlier today Kevin and I paid Sparke a call on what seemed at the time to be an unrelated incident.”

  There was a harsh silence on the other end of the phone. This was Reese’s anticipatory anger setting in. “Go ‘head.”

  Good, cutting him some slack for now. “There was a report of an injured woman fleeing his place. When we arrived, Sparke was cleaning up some blood on his floor.”