by Joel Goldman
In the four days since Simon Alexander had bought me a cup of coffee, it was possible that I'd gone from being a some-time security consultant to being both a murder suspect and serial killer target, depending on whose paranoid flavored Kool-Aid I drank. I had one advantage over Kent and Dolan and Walter Enoch's killer. Shaking made it easier to look both ways and see who was coming at me.
It wasn't only my status that had changed. So had the other volunteers in the dream project and, for that matter, Maggie Brennan's, all of whom could be targets if we were dealing with a serial killer. Tom Goodell never missed a retired cops' lunch and the next one was on Wednesday. I hoped he could close the loop between my Maggie Brennan and his.
The house was quiet and the dogs were sleeping. I reached in my pants' pocket and retrieved the flash drive that held Enoch's dream video and that Kent and Dolan would have taken along with my laptop had they bothered to search me. I loaded the video on the computer Simon had loaned to me, expanded the image to full screen, and turned up the volume.
The video began with the credits: Harper Institute of the Mind, Dream Project, Anthony Corliss, PhD, Project Director, Maggie Brennan, PhD, Assistant Director. Bold yellow font identified the subject as Walter Enoch and the date of the video as January 12.
Enoch's face filled the next frame, the camera shooting him from the neck up, magnifying his moonscape features. The dark paneled wall behind him was familiar. The camera pulled back a few inches, enough to reveal patches of blue and red tartan plaid fabric, confirming my memory. The video had been shot in Enoch's house. He was sitting in the chair where his body was found.
I froze the video, ran upstairs, and dug my Bose headphones out of the bedroom closet, not wanting to miss anything. Back in the kitchen, I took a deep breath and clicked play. Anthony Corliss's voice filled my ears.
"Before we talk about your dreams, Walter, tell me about your accident."
Walter's hand found his chin, crept over his mouth.
"I don't like to talk about it."
"Why? Because it wasn't an accident?"
Walter shuddered, looking away from the camera.
"No reason to talk about it."
"Walter, c'mon now. Look at me," Corliss said from behind the camera. And Walter did. "It's just you and me here, nobody else, and we've known each other a while now. We're friends, you and me, and I'm a doctor. A psychologist. You know that. I've told you about all the people I've helped who've suffered so bad for things they didn't even begin to deserve, things you wouldn't wish on a dog. I can help you if you'll let me."
Walter shifted in his chair. "You should go. I should never have let you in the house. Now you know what I've done."
Corliss ignored the request. "I'm glad you let me in, Walter, because now I can help you. I'll find you a lawyer and I'll testify for you. Tell the judge what a bad time you've had. After what you've been through, they'll go easy on you. Right now, though, you've got to tell me about your dreams. They've got to be terrible. You tell me about them and I'll help you find some peace."
Walter blinked his thin, stubby, pale eyelashes. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. "I am what I am. I got no need to make peace with you or anybody."
"I'm not talking about me or anybody else, Walter. I'm talking about you. Your pain is written in the scars all over your face. Let me help you."
Walter turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek into the back of his chair. "I'm fine. I don't need nobody's help."
"Something like your face, it was probably your mother. Fathers use their fists or a belt. Mothers use water. It's a subconscious connection to the womb. That's why when they go crazy some mommas drown their babies. Others boil them."
Walter ground deeper in the chair, a trickle of tears rolling over his ruined face. Corliss let the silence hang, waiting for him. The dead air lasted a couple of minutes, the camera detailing Walter's squirming anguish. He broke the silence, his head burrowed into the cushion, muffling his sobs.
"My mother poured boiling water on me. I was eight years old. She said I was a monster."
"Were you?"
"Not yet."
"I believe that, Walter. No way you deserved that. No way at all. But that's what she did and here we are. Can't un-ring that bell, can we? So let's concentrate on the part we can do something about starting with your dreams, Walter. Let's you and me get a handle on that."
Corliss's hand appeared in the frame, handing tissues to Walter who wiped his eyes and blew his nose, rolled his shoulders back and down and faced the camera, red eyes and blue lips the only colors in his washed-out face. He coughed, wet and raspy, gulped air, and nodded at the camera, his voice at first soft, gathering strength.
"It's the same dream. Not every night, but most nights. Ever since she burned me. She's running away from me and I'm chasing after her, calling her but it's like she don't hear me because she never stops. Not till I get lost. Then I'm caught up in these dark green vines and they're climbing all over me, pulling me down in the ground and I'm crying for my mother but I'm not making any sounds so she can't hear me. She doesn't know I'm in trouble and I need her. Then the vines, they turn into a big pond and the water's up to my neck and I see my momma in the middle of the pond and the water is shallow there cause I can see her, all of her except for her feet. She's smiling at me and I know she wants me to swim over to her so I start swimming and the closer I get the hotter the water gets and it's getting deeper, not shallower, and I can't touch the bottom. Then the water gets in my mouth and nose and I can't breathe and I'm sinking like a stone. Momma reaches down in the water and grabs me and I tell her I'm so sorry for whatever it was that I did. She calls me a monster, says the devil is in me. Then she shoves me down deeper in the water and the water is burning me. I can't breathe cause I'm swallowing the water and my insides feel like they're on fire and I know right then that I'm gonna die."
"But you don't die. You wake up," Corliss said.
"I don't want to. I want it to be over."
"It will be, soon, I promise you," Corliss said.
The screen went blank but I couldn't take my eyes off it until I realized I was the one holding my breath, the effort shattered by a fresh round of spasms and whiplash, thinking as much about Anthony Corliss as I was about Maggie Brennan. She struck me as a vulnerable mix of steel and sadness. I remembered the promise I'd made to protect her and hoped I could keep it.
I lumbered into the living den on unsteady legs, staring at the wall Lucy had designated for Walter Enoch, wanting to add my answers to the questions she had written. But the gears in my brain had gummed up and all I could do was collapse into the recliner. I promised myself that I would rest a few minutes and then try again, a promise that was broken when Lucy woke me and put me to bed.
Chapter Thirty
Lucy and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and picking at stale bagels. I looked out the window where barren trees, mud-streaked snow, and an iron skillet sky blended into a dull tintype. I was having a herky-jerky morning and felt as flat as the weather.
Ruby was dozing on the floor while Roxy scratched my leg, wagging her tail, which was code for will work for belly rub. I ruffled her beard and she dropped to the floor and rolled on her back, spreading her legs in a pose that mimicked Britney Spears at her most overexposed but for Roxy was charming. I rubbed and Roxy wagged, both of us agreeing that no one could ask for more from a relationship. Her unconditional enthusiasm gave the day hope.
Lucy had struck out at Delaney's apartment complex the night before. A few people knew who he was but none claimed him as a friend and no one had ever been in his apartment. She'd gone to the Kansas City Star's distribution center, found the night shift circulation manager, and gotten the same story. Delaney picked up his papers on time, delivered them on time, and didn't cause any trouble. The manager said he was quiet and kept to himself.
I played Walter Enoch's dream video for her. She drained her coffee and shoved her bagel aside.
"Okay. Now we know that Enoch let Corliss in his house for the video," she said. "It's not likely that he opened the door for anyone else. That puts Corliss at the top of the list of people he could have let in to kill him."
"There's more. I talked to Corliss about Enoch yesterday. He admitted knowing him and recruiting him for the dream project. He said that Enoch had been his mailman but he acted like he didn't know anything about the stolen mail until he read about it in the paper. He lied to me and I want to know why."
As I spoke, my head rotated hard left and down, my left ear meeting my raised left shoulder in a fighter's clinch while my right shoulder dropped and my torso pivoted to the right. The spasm held me for a three count then released and repeated. I let out a long breath.
"You should try that," I said. "Works the lats, the obliques, and the core."
"I'll keep that in mind. So, how worried should I be?" Lucy asked.
"About Corliss?"
"Right. That's exactly who I'm talking about, you moron." She reached across the table and thumped me on the arm. "I'm not going to keep putting you to bed unless you tell me what's going on."
I had awakened lying on top of my bedcovers, wearing yesterday's clothes. A night's sleep, a shower, and clean clothes were not enough to squelch my seismic activity.
"Hey, you didn't even tuck me in."
"You want turn down service, talk to Kate. Seriously, Jack. I'm worried about you. I want to know what's the matter with you. After all," she said, straightening and giving me a tongue-in-cheek glare, "I am your landlady. That gives me rights."
It was a fair request. We were living under the same roof and working on the same case. She'd not only taken risks for me, she had taken care of me. I hoped her concern wasn't over whether I could pay the rent; that I was filling some of the void in her life in the same way she was filling mine.
"I have a movement disorder called tics."
"What a lousy name," Lucy said. "The ones that are hard to pronounce have better telethons. Tics sounds like something you get walking in the woods."
"I'll give you that. It's a neurological disorder, cause and cure unknown. You've heard of Tourette's?"
"Sure."
"Well, it's similar to that. In my case, the more I do, the more I shake. Doesn't matter if it's work or working out, reading a book or going to the movies. There are medications that help some people but they didn't work for me, and the side effects were too intense. I have to manage it by regulating my activities and keeping a balance between what I do and how much I shake."
"Except you do more than shake. Cirque du Soleil would die for some of your contortions. Last night, you were walking around here like your legs were made of spaghetti. When I came home, you had a glazed look on your face like your brain was on a slow motion loop."
"My doctors can explain some parts of it better than others, like the problems with my legs. They tell me the weakness in my legs isn't caused by tics but they can't tell me what is causing it. All the MRIs, EEGs, and other tests come up negative. The good news is that, whatever it is, it won't kill me."
"As long as you spend your time taking walks in the park. I'm not so sure about chasing the dead man."
I shrugged. "I tried walking in the park and walking in the mall and just walking around. It's not enough. It's not who I am."
"I hear that. Changing who you are is harder than it looks. Trust me, I know."
"Besides, it's too late to walk away from this one even if I could."
"At least you've got backup. Simon strikes me as one of the good guys, cute in a nerdy way but smart and steady. Kate is smarter and she's in love with you even though she says you can be a pain in the butt, like I didn't know that after living with you for four days."
Kate didn't wear our relationship on her sleeve. She didn't carve initials in a desktop or tree trunk and I couldn't imagine her opening up like that to Lucy the first time they met.
"She told you that?"
Lucy grinned. "The pain in the butt part?"
"No, you moron." I returned her thump on the arm.
"Oh, the in love part. Not in so many words but my advice is don't piss her off too many times. You're not likely to do any better any time soon. Same goes for me."
"How's that?"
"I've got your back too. I may not have a fancy degree but I'm kick ass in the clutch. First killer puts you on a list, I'll shoot him."
"You're a convicted felon. Where are you going to get a gun?"
"Your closet. Lord knows you shouldn't carry. Last thing we need is for you to start shaking and shoot yourself."
"No way. You leave that gun where it is. You get caught with it and you'll go back to jail. Then who's going to put me to bed?"
She rose from the table and gave me a peck on the cheek. "Nice to know you'd miss me. Time to go to work."
Lucy pulled to the curb in the circle drive at the entrance to the institute. It had been a quiet ride, neither of us bothering with small talk.
"What will you do with the money if you find it?" she asked.
I had unbuckled my seat belt and was about to open the door. Her question stopped me. I hadn't thought about it because there was only one answer.
"Turn it in."
She nodded and took a breath, picking up speed as she spoke, gesturing like a manic conductor. "Why? I mean, I know why. The money isn't yours. It's dirty. The FBI already thinks you know where it is. If you find it and start spending it, they'll be all over you in a heartbeat. You could go to jail. I know all that. But, what if you could keep it without getting caught? Five million dollars is a lot of money. Don't you ever think about that?"
Her face was flush, her breath quick. I knew the look. It was the rush of the impossibly possible, the one in a million shot that breaks the rules that shouldn't apply just this one time and that will fix everything forever but never does and always makes things worse. In that moment, she was Wendy at her most maddening.
"No. Not now. Not ever."
"Well, hey, you're right. Me neither," she said, slapping the steering wheel. "You know what else I've been wondering. How did the mailman end up with Wendy's letter in the first place? If he was Corliss's mailman, was he yours too?"
"That's a question worth asking. Put it on your list after you talk to the construction crew. Finding someone at the post office who will talk to you may be a little tricky."
"Not with my charm. What are you going to do?"
"I've got a lot of ground to cover today but I'm going to start with Anthony Corliss, give him a chance to come to Jesus with me before Kent and Dolan find their way to his office. Once they see Enoch's dream video, they'll have a tough choice to make."
"What's that?"
"Who to arrest first, Corliss or me."
Chapter Thirty-one
We reveal ourselves in many ways, denying, confessing, and rationalizing our faults while exaggerating or diminishing our glories. We embrace and chase those we love and covet, rejecting and denouncing others that threaten us. Our involuntary blinks, nods, winks, grimaces, and squints may flesh out our hidden selves, but nothing says more about us than what we do in the moments that test us, whether it's the hungry, homeless man with his hand out or that which tempts us when no one except God is looking and we aren't convinced He's on duty.
Lucy's question about the money revealed her needs rather than her faults. She had already told me what she'd done, what it had cost her, and how afraid she was of what she might do the next time. Now she was reminding me that she needed backup as much as I did. I hoped I would be kick-ass in the clutch for her.
"Morning," Leonard said. "Frank Gentry was up here looking for you. He waited in your office for a while but he gave up."
"Great. Call him. Tell him I'm here now. I need to talk to him right away."
"No good. He said he'd be tied up in an IT staff meeting until at least eleven and don't ask me to interrupt him."
"Why not?"
"He was in the Special Forces. When those guys give you an order, you don't argue. They'll break your legs just to hear the sound it makes. Me, I'm a conscientious objector."
"To the military?"
"To pain, especially mine."
"Fair enough."
The message light on my phone was blinking. It was a message from Gentry telling me that he'd left the report I'd asked for in the top left-hand drawer of my desk. I found the report in an envelope stamped confidential. It contained the list of staff people who had accessed the dream project files. Gentry had been thorough, alphabetizing the names and including columns identifying each person's position at the institute, their contact information, and the dates on which they had accessed the files. There were thirteen names on the list, including mine.
The least surprising names were Anthony Corliss, Maggie Brennan, and their research assistants, Janet Casey and Gary Kaufman. Four of the people on the list were identified as directors of other projects. I had no idea how their work related to the dream project but added that question to my to-do list. Gentry had included his name since he had accessed the files at my request, his access occurring last night.
The remaining names-Milo Harper, Sherry Fritzshall, and Leonard Nagel-registered on a scale somewhere between interesting and baffling. It took a moment for me to realize that Leonard Nagel was my Leonard. Gentry identified his title as administrative assistant to director of security, adding a footnote that Leonard's access was not authorized and that Gentry was continuing to investigate how he had breached the system security. All three were regular visitors, having accessed the dream project files before and after the deaths of Delaney, Blair, and Enoch.
Leonard's desk was across from my open office door. I watched him as he worked, tapping his Bluetooth earpiece as calls came in, flexing his irrepressible grin. He shuffled papers and scrolled through screens on his computer monitor, a combination pep squad leader and perpetual motion machine. He glanced my way, saw me watching, winked, and went back to work.