Night Visions (14 page)

P
ractice hasn't started yet. Samantha walks out of the locker room, carrying her fencing mask in one hand and a foil in the other. Several members of the Olympic team, who train at this gym before local tournaments, are stretching. One practices defensive parries. His body moves with the quickness of a fox, his arm light and agile. Two others engage in a practice bout. Her muscles ache as she watches. It's been about a week, and her body feels sluggish from being away for so long.

“Sam?”

She turns around quickly, surprised to see Frank.

“What are you doing here?”

“I was on my way to the airport and thought I'd stop by.” He looks at her sleek white uniform and the mask gripped in her hand.

“Where are you going?”

“Raleigh, North Carolina. To see Catherine's parents.” He grabs a folder out of his satchel and hands it to her. “I want to show you something.”

She places her mask and foil on the floor and takes the folder.

“This is a copy of the autopsy report on Catherine,” Frank says. “She died from a knife wound to the stomach—
almost a week ago
. The night before we found Father Morgan.”

“
What?
” Samantha opens the file.

“She couldn't have killed Phebe or Father Morgan.” He pauses, expecting Samantha to appear relieved, but her eyes stay focused on the report. “Forensics also found two types of blood in Catherine's apartment—hers and, presumably, the killer's.”

Samantha still doesn't speak.

“I also talked with the sleep clinics in the area,” Frank continues. “There are four: two in San Francisco, one in Berkeley, and the Oakland Institute. They can't release any information, so Detective Snair is getting a court order.”

“He's going along with this?”

“For the time being. He agrees with your idea that we should check out anyone who has abandoned treatment in the last year.”

Samantha closes the folder but doesn't look up.

“What's wrong?” Frank asks.

“I have something you should see.”

She picks up her gear, and Frank follows her to the locker room. Three pairs of fencers begin bouts as Samantha leads him around the edge of the piste. The fencers' feet slide back and forth on each strip with rhythmic precision. Their foils clash and part like embers springing from a hot fire. The opponents closest to Samantha are fencing a short bout to five touches. Green and red lights flash on the score box above the piste, registering each hit. Frank lingers to watch as she goes to her locker.

She returns and hands him the translated letters.

Frank skims through the first. “What are these?”

“Goldberg's last letters.”

“The musician?”

“Yes.”

“What am I looking for?”

“The count was an alchemist.”

“My mother was Irish Catholic. So what?”

“From the Middle Ages to the nineteenth century, alchemy wasn't simply the prototype of chemistry. It involved transmuting one thing into another.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was doing some research today, and…” Her voice trails off. She turns her face to the side, away from Frank's. “What if the count, in his attempts to find immortality, really did lose the ability to sleep?”

“You mean through some kind of drug or something?” Frank shrugs his shoulders.

“Maybe. I don't know.” She faces him. “Alchemists believed that their scientific practices would ultimately create a universal remedy for all disease. What if the count did the opposite? What if he manufactured a disease by mistake, a kind of curse that could be passed on by blood.”

Frank stares, mouth open slightly. “A curse?”

“Passed on by blood,” she adds.

Frank's expression doesn't change.

“Read Goldberg's description of the count's death in the last letter.” She continues hurriedly. “After they cut each other, the count holds on to him. Only then does he die.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He notices an almost imperceptible line on the skin near her eyes. It is new since he left. Since her troubles with sleep.

“I'm not sure.” She stops and lowers her eyes, staring at nothing. “I was thinking about the ritual today, and…maybe we're dealing with something more powerful than we realize.”

He touches her shoulder gently and says, “Sam, I think you're getting carried away with this story.”

She can see the look of concern on his face—the raised eyebrows, the half smile. “You're right. I'm sorry,” she says to escape his caretaker gaze. She remembers how quickly it can turn to pity. “I'm just tired.”

“Sam,” he begins again.

“Really, it's nothing.”

“I know you've always wanted an explanation for what happened to you. But this curse isn't the answer—”

She steps back angrily. “Don't patronize me, Frank. I'm not suggesting that the bastard who cut me is the killer.”

“I know. I didn't say that—” Frank starts.

“You don't know me as well as you think,” she says defensively. “But even if I am still looking for an explanation, what's wrong with that? The police never came up with anything. No one else saw him. Don't you think I deserve an answer?”

Frank bows his head slightly.

“I do. And I hate the fact that I'll never get one.” She taps the tip of the foil against her right foot.

“I'm sorry,” Frank says, his eyes still lowered. He hears the sounds of clashing foils and sliding feet.

The silence between them makes him uncomfortable.

“So what's going to happen in Raleigh?” Samantha asks, her voice still strained and uneasy.

Frank looks up. “Well, when I first get there, I'm going to get ahold of the autopsy on Catherine's boyfriend, Max. Then I'll meet with Catherine's parents.”

“What are you going tell them?”

The muscles in his face tense with the thought. “That their daughter was murdered and that the corporation can assist with the police investigation if they wish.”

“And if they don't?”

“Then it's over.”

“Over? What do you mean, ‘over'?”

“If they don't want us involved, we can't do anything.”

“You mean if they don't want to pay extra.”

“The corporation was hired to find her, that's all. We don't have jurisdiction over this case.”

“That's a load of crap and you know it.”

“It's not a load of crap. We're
not
the police.” He stops, frustrated. “Look, I have a flight to catch.” He hands her the letters. “I'll call you from Durham, okay?”

Samantha nods, then watches as he turns and leaves the gym without looking back.

Putting on her mask, she steps onto the piste, ready for battle.

 

She doesn't expect to hear the choir singing when she walks into the vestibule of Saint Peter's. It's only Wednesday, but as soon as she picks up a copy of Sunday's bulletin, two soloists start singing an aria from Bach's cantata
Aus der Tiefe rufe ich, Herr, zu dir
. They must be rehearsing early this week, she thinks.

The soprano's voice hovers above the bass's like the faint cry of a frightened child.

 

Have mercy on me, for my load is great;

Lift it from my heart—

Because you have atoned for it

On wood, in mortal agony,

So that I do not suffer now by

Allowing my sins to overcome me,

Nor evermore despair.

 

Samantha's feet and body ache from practice, and after sitting in the back pew, she considers taking off her shoes. On the bulletin's cover, several men, mostly hidden in black shadows and a ghostly haze, strain to raise an inverted cross. One seems to be yelling at the others to pull their ropes harder, while Roman offi
cials oversee the execution. A skin-colored light peers through the charcoal sky, and two angels watch Peter's body through the clouds; his feet and hands are tied to the cross. The text underneath reads:
Crucifixion of St. Peter
by Luca Giordano.

She tries to imagine the room where Frank has to tell Catherine's parents about her death. Will they sit on a couch together, clinging to each other in the hope that the thing they feared most won't destroy them? Are family pictures staring down from the mantel, mocking them with memories of a past now dead to them? Or will the television blare in the background as her father sits in an easy chair and her mother struggles to hold back a small, yapping dog?

Samantha was sitting next to Rachel, watching afternoon cartoons, when the police knocked. She got up amid a sea of potato chips on the couch, the floor, their clothes—as if the bag had exploded. Father told them never to open the door for strangers, but something about the three strong knocks didn't sound like a request. As soon as the officer stepped inside, she heard Father behind her. She doesn't remember his words, just the dish towel falling from his hands and the sounds of her sister sobbing and gasping for breath. Rachel always cried easily, at almost anything, in fact. But Samantha is her father's daughter, she thinks.

Neither of them cried at the funeral. She walked close behind him to the casket, looking at the hard, straight angles of Father's shoulders. She kept thinking,
If I only look at his shoulders I won't cry
.

Without tears, the rest of the world might not know how deeply she had been wounded.

At the wake, people whispered of the tragedy and the injustice of it. They compared notes like students preparing for a test.

“No, the driver was coming from the other direction. He lost control of the car and crossed the median. They hit head on.”

“She couldn't have seen him coming.”

“She died immediately.”

Empty words to fill the awkward silence, to mask the fear of mortality and the guilty relief that it was someone else.

Friends and family hugged as they left. They told her that mourning was the first step to healing. But some scars on the body never heal. Why should the heart be any different?

Samantha looks at her watch and gets up to leave for the clinic. The voices of the choir float into the rafters, echoing off the buttresses and stained-glass windows.

 

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits, and in his word I hope.

 

She steps outside, and a sudden wave of cold air stings her face, almost making her eyes water.

Almost.

She too is waiting. She has been waiting her entire life. Not so much for hope, but for tears—tears to release her from the pain of the past.

WILMINGTON, NORTH CAROLINA
JUNE 10, 1994
10:17 P.M.

John Pouliot's head pounds like waves against the boardwalk. He grips the rail, trying to stare at an anchored boat across the river, but his vision blurs. Everything moves in and out of focus. He closes his eyes.

“Come on, Biggins,” he mutters, then turns around slowly. Several children run past, dragging balloons in their wake; a jazz band on the promenade starts playing Duke Ellington's “East St. Louis Toodle-Oo,” and lovers kiss to the rhythm of the music.

Feeling light-headed, Pouliot eases himself to the ground. He needs something to focus on, so he grabs the well-worn deck from his back pocket and starts dealing a hand. The cards feel smooth, like his father's baseball glove, and he is calmed by the sliding whisper and quick snap of each one between his fingers. He's not playing a game, just watching them spill into uneven
piles. The Suicide King and his Queen fall next to each other, and for the first time Pouliot notices their faces. The King of Hearts thrusts a sword through his own head in an act of passion, while his Queen smirks, thinking,
Only a fool would kill himself for love.

Each pair tells a similar story of how lonely togetherness can be. The King of Spades heads off to battle, anguished that he may never see his Queen again, while she wears a stern, resolute expression. For her, kingdoms and power come before love. The Clubs look aged and tired. They have grown apart. Their faces register sadness at this unspoken truth. The Diamonds live separate lives. Perhaps it was money, infidelity, or fate that pushed them apart. No matter what, love has fallen short of their hopes, leaving the King with a gambler's face—indifferent, confident, desperate. Pouliot puts this card in his breast pocket and gathers up the rest.

It has taken him almost a year to figure out that he had killed Thomson and his wife. At first, he thought the visions were only nightmares. A long blade slicing someone's throat. Blood spraying against the crayon drawing of a tree and the picture frames filled with smiling faces. A circle carved into the chest of a woman's body. For months, these visions ended the same way—with a dark figure lumbering toward the front door, breathing heavily. Grabbing the doorknob, he turns to the mirror on his left. The face is too dark to see. It's swallowed by shadows.

Eventually, it became clear. The face was his.

Since then, he has seen several deaths this way. Last week, it was a woman hanging upside down in a public shower at the YMCA. The room was silent. No running water or blood swirling down the drains. No steam filling the room. Just silence, and white walls splattered in red. He decided to leave, to run away from New Orleans, from himself if he could.

Walter Biggins was the only friend he knew who lived farther away than Shreveport. Several years ago, he and his brother moved to Wilmington to start a business, to start a new life, and no one heard from them again. The old neighborhood complained bitterly, talking of them as if they were wartime deserters, but Pouliot understood the need to make a clean break. Sometimes the past can take over, making you feel as if nothing is ever going to change.

That's also why he gambles. Each game promises something new—every win a surprise, every loss a reminder that there is always more to lose.

“J. P., I'd recognize that fat head anywhere. What the hell are you doing down there?” The cheerful voice startles him, and Pouliot looks up.

“Resting. It's about time you got here.” He strains a smile and stands up. Biggins seems more athletic, even younger than he remembered. His gray suit and shiny shoes look out of place on the boardwalk.

“I was surprised to hear from you. It's been a long time.” Biggins glances at Pouliot's worn, tired body. “What are you doing here?”

“Things aren't the same back home. I needed to get away.”

“And you just happened to end up in Wilmington?”

“Well, I remembered that you came here and looked you up in the phone book. I just got in this afternoon.”

“Remind me to get an unlisted number.” Biggins laughs at his own joke, and they start walking along the riverfront.

Biggins asks about home, old friends, favorite hangouts, and past lovers. He's been away long enough to be nostalgic, and his manner becomes more relaxed as he reminisces. It's always easy to love something when you know you're never going back to it, Pouliot thinks.

“I need a place to stay for a few days. Maybe a week.” Pouliot wrings his hands as he talks. The last few years have sapped his instinctive charm. His voice sounds unsteady, thin. “I just have to get back on my feet. I haven't slept much since Thomson died a few years ago, and I've…I've been down on my luck—”

“You never had any luck.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't, J. P. I don't know you anymore. We've changed. I've changed.” Biggins looks at him, then adds: “You in trouble with the cops?”

“No. It's not like that…. I'm just tired of losing, that's all.”

Biggins doesn't answer at first, then stops. “A week tops. I have a new life here. I left the past behind for a reason.”

“I'm just trying to do the same.”

 

The outside of his apartment building looks worn and eroded by years of rain, high winds, and an unforgiving sun. The peeling paint reveals colors from decades past, white-red brick and part of a 1950s Coca-Cola advertisement painted onto the wall. The past is pushing its way to the surface, and something about this makes Pouliot afraid of the future.

Inside, the small apartment smells like a tuna fish sandwich on toast. A yellowing couch with frayed pillows and no shape fills most of the living room. Across from it, a cardboard box supports a small TV and VCR. The clock flashes 12:00 repeatedly, and Pouliot wonders if Biggins has ever bothered to set it. Several unmarked videotapes are scattered on the floor, and dozens more line the shelves of a lopsided bookcase. Only a few books and magazines have been stacked on top. Pouliot follows Biggins to the kitchen, where Biggins opens the fridge and tosses him a beer. They sit at a poker table with chairs that don't match. A poster of North Carolina lighthouses is tacked to the wall behind it.

“I just moved in last week.” Biggins concentrates on his drink as he says this, and Pouliot can tell that he doesn't want to talk about the apartment.

Not knowing what to say next, Pouliot asks, “How about a game?”

“Sure.”

They play poker for hours, taking turns as dealer and adding new rules and variations every round. Pouliot can't remember the last time he played just for the game, not money. Maybe never, but it doesn't matter. He drinks a six-pack like water, smokes three cigarettes, and talks about old neighborhood games that lasted till sunrise. Maybe his luck is starting to change after all.

After losing four in a row, Biggins pounds the rest of his beer and says: “I need to get to bed, J. P. I've got to get up early. There's an extra room.”

“Thanks.” Pouliot follows him to a room filled mostly with unpacked cardboard boxes and a mattress next to a wrought-iron heater.

“I'll get you a blanket and pillow.”

When Biggins leaves, Pouliot strips down to an undershirt and boxers, opens his knapsack, and pulls out a pair of handcuffs, laying them on the bed. The room is stuffy and thick with dust. He tries to open the window, but it's painted shut. Sitting on the mattress, he locks one side of the cuffs to his right wrist and waits.

“Here you go.” Biggins walks into the room with a comforter and pillow. “I only have a—what the hell?”

“I need you to keep this for me till morning.” Pouliot holds out a tiny key in the palm of his left hand.

“Jesus Christ.” Biggins chuckles nervously. “This isn't some kinky sex thing, is it?”

“You wish.” Pouliot smiles. “I sleepwalk, and sometimes…it's dangerous.”

“I've never heard of anyone chaining himself to a heater before.”

“How many people do you know who sleepwalk?”

“Well, none, but this seems a little fucked up. I mean, what if you have to go to the bathroom?”

“I have a strong bladder. Can you put this somewhere till morning?”

“Sure.” He takes the key tentatively. “Just don't break the heater while playing with yourself.”

“I'll try to keep that in mind.”

JUNE 11, 1994
5:33 A.M.

It's still dark outside when Biggins walks into the room and sees J. P.'s contorted body. His right shoulder and arm look as if they're trying to pull away from the rest of him, and his face seems lined with pain. Biggins steps closer and places the key on the floor. Everything is quiet except for the muffled sound of his footsteps against the carpet. He doesn't hear J. P. snoring or breathing, and the stillness makes him edgy. He hurries out of the apartment to catch the bus. The cool air feels invigorating against his face.

For the rest of the day, he wonders about sleepwalking. What did Pouliot mean about it being dangerous? What happened to make him run away? He wants some answers but doesn't know how to ask. By the time the last shift ends, his head is spinning with questions, and it's as dark outside as it was when he left this morning.

J. P. isn't there when he gets home. His bag is still on the floor in the guest room, and a card has been placed on the kitchen table—the King of Diamonds. Biggins takes this as a
sign that he'll be back. He waits up until 1:15
A.M.
,
watching television and eating tortilla chips, then goes to bed. Not wanting to lock Pouliot out, he leaves the front door unbolted.

JUNE 13,
1994 9:41 A.M.

After reading the Sunday comics and slurping through another bowl of Froot Loops, Biggins glances at the front page: “College Student Killed at Wrightsville Beach.” A junior at UNC Wilmington had been found on the beach early yesterday morning. Her body was buried under the sand—arms stretched out to her sides and feet bound together. A local resident noticed a card protruding from the ground. The killer apparently placed the Queen of Diamonds in her mouth.

Biggins puts down the paper. He can feel the already hot sun warming the apartment, but his body is cold. Folding the paper, he looks at the card still sitting on the table where J. P. left it. The King's icy face stares at him, thinking not about his Queen but about his inability to remember a time before her.

Biggins isn't so sure that J. P. will come back now, but just in case, he gets up and locks the door.