None Shall Sleep

by Ellie Marney

  Betty inclines her head, departs. Emma walks over to take the envelope, as Bell seems reluctant to do more than just stare at it. Inside, a stiff card provides details of the service; instead of flowers, Edmund Cooper’s brother has requested people donate to the FBI Financial Need Scholarships Fund.

  “Now I guess we know why Carter’s flying back.” Bell frowns at the card. “Goddammit. How many more people have to die before we catch this bastard?”

  Emma puts a hand on his shoulder. She remembers the first time she did that, in the gymnasium after Cooper gave them Simon Gutmunsson’s file. Bell was grieving then and he’s grieving now. She wishes more than anything that things hadn’t come full circle.

  “Go to your dorm and pack,” she says. “I’ll keep the fire burning.”

  Emma tries to keep busy. She’s anxious and she’s angry, and she knows the only thing that stops her from falling off that cliff is to stay occupied, so she sets herself tasks—calling home, leaving messages for Kristin Gutmunsson at Chesterfield, leaving messages for Dr. Scott at St. Elizabeths. Bell changes his flight so he can attend the service tomorrow, then breaks into Spanish on the phone with his mother. The language has a cadence Emma finds soothing, until she remembers what Simon said about the musicality of her own voice. She stops eavesdropping, concentrates instead on cutting down the list of medical technicians by factoring in the date range.

  They break for lunch and pick at their food at a table in the grove while watching a busload of National Academy students pull out on their way to the Lincoln Memorial. When Emma and Bell get back to the Cool Room, the phone is ringing and Emma has to run for it.

  “Lewis.” She remembers she’s not officially FBI. “I mean, it’s Emma Lewis here. Hi.”

  “Miss Lewis, I’m glad I caught you.” Linda Brown sounds warm and amused on the other end of the line.

  There’s another noise at the door. Bell is talking to someone, and Emma has to tune it out while she and Linda Brown discuss the phrasing of Simon’s advertisement. At the end of the conversation, Emma thanks her for getting back in touch on a Sunday.

  “No problem.” A hesitation from Brown. “Ed Cooper would’ve called me on a Sunday. He would’ve done what he had to do. Call again anytime, Miss Lewis.”

  Emma replaces the receiver in its cradle. When she turns around, Bell is standing with his arms crossed.

  “What is it?” she asks.

  “You first.”

  “That was Brown. No code. The message is flowery but accurate, which means the Butcher has a standing invite to visit St. Elizabeths tonight. Your turn.”

  “That was Martino. Raymond sent a message—he wants to see us.”

  “Right now?”

  “Right now. Grab your jacket.”

  He closes the door behind them. Emma wants to ask what it was in Raymond’s message that got Bell so angry. Then she decides that overall, she doesn’t want to know.

  The trip to Raymond’s office is short and fast, too fast.

  “Remember,” Bell says, “we didn’t hear about the asylum operation through official channels. Martino’s information is all on the down-low. If Raymond asks, we’re still in the dark about it.”

  Emma nods and faces forward, knocks.

  “Come,” Raymond calls.

  They enter together. Raymond sits at his desk as if it’s a godlike throne. Martino, aggressively neutral, stands at attention to the right. Raymond’s facial expression is puckered and Emma has to take a deep breath to hold on to her anger.

  “You two,” Raymond says. “I understand your ID badges are still active until tomorrow, and while you’re on this base you answer to me—so I’m sending you on an errand.”

  “What’s the errand,” Bell asks tonelessly. Emma suspects he is at the end of his patience with Raymond.

  “Simon Gutmunsson’s twin, Kristin, has been allowed visitation access to see her brother. Whatever kind of weird relationship they might have, I’ve allowed it because Gutmunsson agreed to cooperate with the bureau on official business.”

  There it is. Emma exchanges a glance with Bell. Now they know how Raymond got Simon to agree to his terms.

  Raymond plucks at his tie. “Unfortunately, Kristin Gutmunsson has only agreed to meet the conditions of visitation if you two are the ones who escort her to her brother’s facility.”

  Emma bites her lip. Leverage, thy name is Kristin. “And what if, considering the circumstances, we don’t wish to perform escort duty?”

  Raymond makes an unpleasant-looking smile. “Then, Miss Lewis, I will have you charged with obstruction of justice. Your IDs will be confiscated and you will be physically removed from this base by serving Marines. Mr. Bell can kiss his police academy spot goodbye…”

  He cuts his eyes to Bell, whose jaw clenches so tight Emma can practically see his teeth through his cheek.

  “… and needless to say, your per diem for time served will be null and void. So do I have an agreement on this?”

  For a moment, the flames of Emma’s fury burn so high it leaves her airless.

  “What official business is Simon Gutmunsson assisting with?” Bell asks.

  “Not your concern,” Raymond says. “Just get me the girl. Bring her to St. Elizabeths before the end of the day, let her see her brother, take her home. It’s a simple job. So simple even you two can’t screw it up.”

  “We’ll do it,” Bell says, just as Emma is opening her mouth to fire back at Raymond. She whips her eyes in Bell’s direction.

  “Good.” Raymond waves them away. “Well, go on then, time’s a-wasting.”

  Bell practically hauls her out of the room, closes the door behind them both.

  “What the—let go of my arm!” As Bell steers her toward the elevators, she tugs her elbow back. “Why the hell did you say yes? We could’ve asked for more information, delayed things somehow—”

  Bell steps into the elevator car, forcing her to match him. When the door closes, he turns. “Anticipate, accept, agree—remember what Cooper said? Lewis, we can use this. We can’t stop Raymond from mounting this operation—the man’s set in his own mind. But this gives us a chance to talk to Kristin again, talk to Scott, get more information from Martino. More importantly, we’ll be at the asylum when the operation is supposed to go down.”

  “You want to be at St. Elizabeths for the operation?” Emma’s eyes go wide.

  “Don’t you?” He steps back a pace. His cheeks are pink, almost feverish-looking. “The Butcher could slip through the FBI’s fingers just like he did in Annandale. Simon Gutmunsson could be planning to use the upheaval at the asylum to escape, and we know Raymond is going to underestimate him. Don’t we have a responsibility to do something?”

  “Yes, sure, but do what? You want to go to the asylum and—”

  “I don’t know yet.” Bell shoves a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But I want to take this chance and run with it.” He straightens, looks at her. “I want to see the Butcher go down. I want to make sure Simon Gutmunsson never gets free. If the only way we’ll be allowed access is through the back door, I’ll take it.”

  Emma calms her breathing and her mind. Does she want to treat this as an opportunity? Yes. Yes, she does. “Okay. So we do what Raymond wants and escort Kristin, which gets us inside. And from there we can keep an eye on Simon?”

  “Now you’re catching on.” Bell makes an almost-grin that reminds her of Cooper.

  Emma realizes he hasn’t hit the button for Lower Ground. “We’re not going to motor pool.”

  “Nope. We’re going straight out front.”

  “You’re taking the pickup?”

  He nods. “It’s got my gun in it.”

  Emma swallows. This is it.

  Bell checks his watch. “It’s going on fourteen hundred now, and I’ll be at least two hours on the road with Kristin.”

  “More like three,” Emma says as they reach the ground floor. “Wait—you’re going to get Kristin? What am I gonna do?”


  Bell exits the elevator, walking backward. “Research, groundwork—go to St. Elizabeths and talk to Gutmunsson, find out what’s going on in his brain. See if you can figure out what he’s planning. Talk to Scott, get an idea of how the operation is supposed to play out tonight.”

  Emma’s striding to keep up. “Don’t be late.”

  “Don’t let Gutmunsson screw with your head,” Bell counters.

  “Good luck,” Emma says.

  “I don’t say that anymore.” Before he disappears out the atrium door, he meets her eyes. “Let’s say ‘good hunting.’”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Rabbit has a flat.

  Emma swears the parking area blue, stops to gather herself. She could ease the car down to the motor pool, but if her father knew she’d done that he’d be mortified, so she rolls up her sleeves and changes the tire herself. It slows her down for more than thirty minutes, which means she hits heavy traffic on the way to Washington.

  Sitting in a jam past the Jefferson Memorial, she tries again to find that emotional connection to the Butcher’s victims. She had a flash of it, enough to figure out the medical technicians list. She knows she needs that connection now more than ever, but her grasp on it is slippery. She’s dangerously distracted by the knowledge of what’s happening, of forces moving in the distance like thunderclouds, and also the awareness that they don’t have any more time.

  When she finally makes it to the asylum, the high redbrick ramparts look ominous, and a stiff breeze pushes at her in the parking area. She pushes against it as she walks for the door, pushes against the low, pulsing pressure in her mind.

  In the cool of the foyer, a white-uniformed employee with a first aid kit, who is already speaking to the receptionist, makes way for Emma to ask for Dr. Scott to be paged. She’s kept waiting in the foyer for nearly twenty-five minutes. At last the woman arrives, announced by the clipped enunciation of her heels on the parquet floor.

  “Miss Lewis.” Scott is wearing black, as if she’s in mourning, but Emma finds her calming to look at. “I’m so glad to see you. I was told you went with Mr. Bell to escort Kristin Gutmunsson.”

  “No.” Emma feels a stab of anger toward Raymond. “Bell went alone, and I came here. I’m sorry for the confusion. Things have been… complicated over the last few days.”

  “I know.” Scott shakes her head in disbelief. “The news about Ed Cooper’s death was just awful. I’d like to attend his service, if my duties here permit.”

  “It’s tomorrow. But I haven’t… I mean, I haven’t come just to tell you about that. I’d like to see Simon, if you’ll allow it.” Emma feels that honesty might work best with Scott today. “I don’t have official permission. I’m not even really supposed to be here—”

  “Miss Lewis, I’ve been told to restrict visitors, but if you’d like to visit Simon, you’re more than welcome. It might help to settle him, given the current situation.” Scott leads her to the wooden foyer door under the stairs, opens it with the long black key. They walk together through the great hall. “I received your message, that you wanted to speak to me—did you want to discuss the FBI operation here in the asylum? What do you know about it?”

  “Not much. Only that Simon is part of it.” Welded steel clangs shut behind Emma’s back. She has to stop herself from jumping.

  Scott’s heels now sound brusque. “I’ve been ordered to empty this central section of staff and arrange an area in the old kitchen to the right of this hall for FBI personnel. Oh, and of course, I’m to surrender access to Simon’s room and I don’t get a say in how they’ll manage his care this evening.”

  Scott’s tone is bitter, and Emma immediately knows she needs to use that. “Letting the FBI manage Simon’s procedures sounds like a bad idea.”

  “I’m not entirely confident that Raymond knows what he’s doing. Pradeep has some concerns as well. I’m worried they won’t know how to manage Simon, and… costly mistakes will be made.”

  Emma has to walk fast to keep up. “Is it true Simon is being transferred to another facility?”

  “Paperwork has been set in motion, yes.” Scott looks bitter about that, too. “The FBI wants to transfer Simon to Byberry, in Pennsylvania. I’m contesting the transfer, and I believe the Gutmunssons’ lawyer is also contesting.”

  “How long does Simon have?”

  “This may be his last night at St. Elizabeths.”

  “Is he aware of all this?”

  “Yes.”

  Emma factors that in. “So what’s his state of mind right now?”

  “Tense,” Scott admits. “Overstimulated, because Raymond has provided him with some concessions I don’t usually allow. He’s also nervous, I think, that the chance to see his sister might be snatched away. He hasn’t seen his twin in nearly two years, reinforced by court order, and I know they were close. Here we are.”

  Scott raps. Emma can hear a hum beyond the oak door. As the locks rattle, she sees pale motes floating in filtered light from the barred clerestory windows high above. She has a sense that time is slowing, fracturing.

  “Talk to him,” Scott urges. “Be a friend. I know he can seem haughty, but it’s largely a defense mechanism. He might open up a little more, and it would be a good opportunity to calm his fears.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Emma says. She wipes her palms against her jeans.

  He might open up. Emma thinks that Scott means well, but Kristin has the better sense of it—He would like to crack you open.

  The door goes wide.

  The first thing she notices is the music. On the floor, just before the police barriers around Simon’s cage, an old record player sits connected to a single speaker. The light in the chapel is golden, and the air is full of violins and the rich, round tones of a male voice.

  Pradeep has resumed his post at the desk. He doesn’t speak, just bows with his chin and extends a hand to the cell.

  Simon Gutmunsson stands barefoot in his cage, one fist pressed against his chest, his face uplifted and blown with rapture. All the color is leached from his skin and hair under a shaft of afternoon sunlight. His eyes are closed, seemingly rolled back behind the lids, but when Emma opens her mouth to speak, he lifts a finger to order pause.

  The music swells, crescendoes, amplified by the excellent acoustics of the room. Emma knows nothing about opera, but the tenor’s voice creates a vibration in her heart that encourages tears.

  When it’s over, she’s left blinking. The arm of the record player, with its sharp needle, has lifted automatically. Simon is already watching her.

  “None shall sleep, indeed. Certainly not tonight.” The finger he employed to make her wait is now lifted to his bottom lip. “Are you excited, Emma? There’s going to be quite a gala here this evening—I hope you’ve been invited.”

  “My invitation seems to have been neglected,” she says, still surfacing after the music. “But I’ve brought myself along anyway.”

  “And all dressed up, too. Your running shoes are looking a little worn down, though—the path to self-forgiveness is a stony one, it seems. Or maybe you’ve been running an honor lap for the fallen dead. Poor Agent Cooper.”

  The quip about Cooper stings, even though she braced for it. “Dr. Scott said you might be leaving St. Elizabeths.”

  “For new adventures, yes.” Simon grins, moves to his desk, and settles himself on top of it. He picks through the fruit in his bowl.

  “There are worse places to be than here.”

  “It doesn’t really matter, does it, if they’re all jails?” His eyes gleam, a cold flare on a vast tundra.

  Emma forces herself not to recoil. “You must be looking forward to seeing Kristin.”

  “I’m reserving judgment. It never pays to get too excited about FBI promises.” He takes an apple from the bowl, tosses it. “Did you enjoy the Puccini? It’s the most hackneyed aria, but I was restricted by Dr. Scott’s execrable taste.”

  “It’s beautiful. But you k
now that.”

  “Perhaps we might attend the Kennedy Center together one day and hear something good. Consider it an open invitation.” He tilts his head, clearly tickled by the idea, before returning the apple to the bowl. “But you have to catch the Butcher first, of course. Do you think he’ll fall into the FBI’s trap this evening? Are you here to keep watch over me, so I’m not exsanguinated in my sleep? That would be fun, like a slumber party. We can wear our pajamas—oh, look, I’m already wearing mine.”

  She takes a measured step closer. “I’m here to see how you are. And… to make sure you don’t take advantage of the situation. I know you’ve got something planned, Simon.”

  “Do you?” He crosses his legs, resting his lower foot on the chair. “Then perhaps you’re not keeping up. I’m the bait, you know. When the Butcher arrives to harvest my ‘donation,’ will the FBI rush to my rescue? I’m sure they’d be perfectly happy just to nab their target and leave me a bloodless husk.”

  “I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen,” she says evenly. Nobody deserves a death like the Butcher’s victims suffered—not even Simon.

  “And ensure that I stay in my cell, yes, naturally. But it would be nice to catch the Butcher yourself. Why give all the credit to the FBI?”

  “I don’t care who catches him, so long as he gets caught.”

  “But think about it, Emma. You’d be securing your reputation with the bureau. And aside from all the professional kudos, think of the personal relief. No more anxiety about the deaths of other people hanging over your head—you’ll save a fortune in therapy bills.”

  Simon steps down off the chair to approach the bars. The sun haloing him now turns his red lips dark and his white hair into fire. He looks like a figure in a Russian icon, bestowing blessings with the same harsh mercy.

  “Do you think you understand your emotions enough to be a worthy opponent for the Butcher?” he asks. “He’s not just going to walk into your arms, you know.”