Night Visions (16 page)

DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA
FEBRUARY 14, 1997
11:40 P.M.

Pouliot doesn't know exactly where he is, and he doesn't care. The dark, noisy bar seems to crowd around him, and the smoke clings to his body like a wool sweater. He looks up from the empty glass in front of him and signals the bartender for another. His bloodshot eyes burn relentlessly, and the muscles in his legs ache. He has lived somewhere between sleeping and waking for so long that he thinks about only one thing—dying. He can't remember a time when he ever wanted anything else.

“Six-fifty.” The bartender's hoarse voice cuts through the thick air.

Pouliot hands him the money, then pulls out the deck from his back pocket. The worn cards feel soft between his fingers as he shuffles.

“Do you know any tricks?” Next to him, a petite woman with curly brown hair and green eyes watches his hands. She takes a sip from her martini and smiles.

“No, I'm not good with tricks.” Pouliot looks at her body. A tight black skirt clings to her tan thighs, and several thin silver bracelets cover each wrist.

“I see. You're one of those honest men.” She laughs delicately.

“I wouldn't say that.”

“A gambler, then?”

“Not anymore. I used to play back home.”

“Where's that?”

“New Orleans.”

“I've always wanted to go there. Any city with drive-through daiquiri stands has to be a good place to live.”

“It's a definite plus. So what about you?”

“I'm a local girl. I work at a library.”

“Doing what?”

“Enforcing nuclear disarmament treaties. What do you think? I stack books. I check them out. I stack them again.”

“So you're a librarian.”

“That's generally what we're called.”

“I've never met a librarian before.”

“Is it everything you hoped it would be?”

“What?”

“Meeting a librarian.”

He looks over her body again. “You're not what I expected.”

“I don't wear this to work.” She takes another sip and holds out her hand. “I'm Veronica, by the way.”

“J. P.” Their hands touch briefly.

“So, J. P., do you mind if we go somewhere else? I hate the VD scene.”

“VD scene?”

“Valentine's Day. Haven't you noticed all the disgusting displays of affection?”

“Not really.”

“Ass grabbing, clinging, slobbering. I feel like I'm back in kindergarten…well, except for the ass-grabbing part. Though I remember a boy in fourth grade who used to pinch my—”

“Look, you…you don't want to know me.”

She finishes the last sip of her drink and smiles. “Who said anything about getting to know you? I was just planning to talk about myself.” She stands up and walks to the door. Pouliot follows.

After all, he is a gambler.

 

Across the street, the Lucky Stars Motel is open for business. It's a place where most clients pay by the hour, and the management doesn't ask questions. Behind the front desk, a dark-skinned man with jet-black hair watches porn on a small black-and-white TV. He has no bottom front teeth, and his mustard-colored shirt is stained and frayed. Without looking away from the screen, he puts the key on the countertop. Veronica grabs it—Room 304—and puts down several folded bills. She leads the way without pausing to figure out which staircase to use.

Inside, the room smells like smoke and sweat. The only floor lamp gives off a faint yellow light that makes everything look sickly. The varnish is peeling off the wooden desk and matching chair, and like the rest of the furniture in the room, they're ready to collapse. The comforter on the king-size bed is dark green with circular stains, and one of the drapes has been torn. Most of it lies on the floor like a discarded nightgown. A thin white veil still covers the window, which looks out onto a brick wall.

Veronica walks to the nightstand and opens the top drawer. Without saying a word, she pulls out the green, hard-covered Bible and a pen. She looks up at him. “What does J. P. stand for?”

“John Pouliot.”

“That's a nice name.” She writes something on the inside jacket and closes the book.

“What's that for?”

“To remember.”

She puts the Bible on the desk and leads him to bed. The floor creaks as they step forward, and Pouliot suddenly becomes afraid—of lying down, of falling asleep. She pushes him back onto the mattress and climbs above him. Her hair falls down the sides of her face like a waterfall. The yellow light behind her flickers. She leans forward to kiss him and feels his stubble scratch her cheeks. Unbuttoning his shirt with increasing urgency, she touches his chest with her fingertips. His head and neck feel as if they're burning. The heat of his body seems almost unbearable. Then her foot bumps his ankle as she moves down to unbuckle his pants.

“Ouch,” she mutters and looks at his legs. “What's this?” She tries to grab the metal object taped around his ankle, but he tears it from his body first. She yells at the sight of the knife and stumbles back toward the desk. He lunges at her. Before he can get to his feet, she smashes a glass ashtray into his temple, knocking him to a sitting position on the bed. He swings the knife blindly, slicing across her abdomen. He grabs her throat with his left hand.

She dives for the knife, breaking his grip, and bites his wrist with such force that she feels the bone. He moans, shoving her onto the floor with both hands. She gets up and runs to the door so quickly that he doesn't catch her until she's turning the knob.
He wraps his bleeding arm around her waist and starts pulling. Suddenly, she pushes against the door with her right leg, sending them both tumbling to the floor.

She tries to get away, but his grip is too tight. She throws her head back and hits his cheekbone. As she rolls off him and gets to her knees, he stabs her below the rib cage.

The pain is paralyzing.

It burns like fire racing along a windy trail of gasoline. She wants to scream, but can't find the breath. She gasps for air as he gets up slowly and unsteadily. In desperation, she flings herself at him. The knife flies from his hand. She dives for it and rolls on her back. He crawls above her in a moment but doesn't see the blade as she thrusts it into his upper abdomen. Then the strength leaves her body, and the room begins to spin. She tries to see over his bulky frame, which lies on top of her.

Both of their bodies are sticky with blood.

Everything goes out of focus. The hazy yellow light fades into blackness….

FEBRUARY 15, 1997
8:27 P.M.

Somehow she's made it as far as home and her blue-and-white striped couch. She wipes the drool from her mouth and looks at her watch.
Crap.
Her face feels numb from the pillow, and her side aches as if she has been kicked by a soccer player. In the bathroom, the fluorescent light buzzes. Brown stains cover the front of her torn blouse. Last night starts coming back to her in flashes: J. P. at the bar; a fight in the motel room; his body on the floor this morning; the cab ride back to her apartment.

She lifts up her blouse and inspects the cuts across her stom
ach and rib cage. The bleeding has stopped. She touches them tenderly.

Walking back into the living room, she turns on a lamp and sees the green Bible on the glass table. She doesn't remember taking it but must have done so out of habit. It looks new and even crackles when she opens the cover. In the top left-hand corner, the name John Pouliot is written in her handwriting. She throws it away and walks to the bedroom.

The sliding glass door to the closet is open, and a box peeks out from underneath her jackets and coats. It's too heavy to put on one of the higher shelves, so she keeps it on the floor. Sliding it over to the bed, she sits with it between her feet. Her side aches as she leans down. Inside, there are twenty-three bibles. She takes several out of the box and starts opening them. Each one is inscribed with a name and the hope that her doctors are wrong.

Doug Williams, Dave Sollors, Alan Bergman, James Larsen…

 

It all started in college—the day Veronica skipped sociology class and met Marcus at the gym. Sweat was the one thing they had in common. They ran together, played racquetball competitively, and never missed an intramural basketball match. For someone so athletic, Marcus didn't move much during sex. He always stayed on his back, quietly concentrating on his own pleasure. He mostly kept his hands behind his head, scratching his scalp audibly while sweat dripped from every pore. The bed in her dorm room was small, so she always made him go back to his room to sleep. She needed space. And some time to dry off.

Since Marcus closed his eyes as soon as they undressed, Veronica figured that he didn't really care who was there. He tried to reassure her with talk of love and passion. But whatever fire may have burned for her was extinguished in a sea of sweat when he found out she was pregnant. The next day he
offered to pay for half the abortion and said nothing more. He just sat across the room with his hands in his lap.

He didn't look at her.

She cried after he left.

 

The day before her appointment, she stood at the top of a staircase in the gym. Trying to decide between life and death amid three floors of smelly bodies, Veronica listened to a cacophony of sounds: basketballs pounding on the court, referees with piccolo-whistles, the hum of rowing machines. She had been nauseated and light-headed in the mornings for over a week and shouldn't have been there. She started swaying from the smells and sounds until she fell. She didn't faint—she remembers seeing herself tumble down the cement steps. But she didn't try to stop the fall either.

The ambulance came. She bled.

The pain didn't scare her as much as the blood. Her shorts were sticking to her thighs with black-red blood, and she saw her body as something separate. Afterward, the doctors told her she would never be able to conceive again.

 

Joshua Trachtenberg, Keith Perkins, Albert Constantini, Jonathan Lears…

The memories of those evenings flash in front of her like scenes in a movie, but tonight she fast-forwards through the details. These stories all end the same way. She is still waiting for the miracle that will change everything. She puts the Bibles back into the box.

I need to call the police about last night,
she thinks, but her body seems paralyzed. Lying back on the mattress, she looks at the ceiling. Several white stickers of stars, moons, and comets are clustered directly above the bed—probably put there by some child years ago. At one time they must have glowed
yellow-green; now, only their outline is visible. The child is long since gone, and the apartment is perfectly still. There is nothing here but Veronica, looking up at the faded stickers and thinking about a box of Bibles.

“I'll just rest a bit longer,” she mutters.

FRIDAY

S
amantha slept soundly on the hard cot and woke up wondering if Dr. Clay had given her the gift of sleep after all. Fluorescent lights buzz like mosquitoes above her ears, and the circular yellow stain on the ceiling moves in and out of focus as her eyes adjust. It suddenly turns red, like the mark carved into Phebe's chest.
No.
She shuts her eyes and opens them again. The yellow stain returns. Is this the price for sleep? Terrible visions and nightmares that foreshadow devastating truths?

 

After Frank moved in with her, Father said, “Samantha, for everything there is a price. Don't take what you're not ready to pay for.”

“But this is about love,” she said defensively.

“Especially with love.” His voice wasn't sad, just matter-of-fact, like a librarian's.

Samantha didn't understand him at the time. She was in love with Frank. Confident. Arrogant, believing that what they had couldn't be lost or stolen. But eventually, things changed. Frank
left because he couldn't keep giving to someone who only knew how to take. At least, that's how he saw it. And Samantha finally understood her father. For everything there is a price, and she discovered the cost too late.

Perhaps, she thinks, the only true gifts come from strangers. Like giving loose change to someone on a street corner. It might be a meaningless gesture, one that has more to do with guilt than caring, but at least you'll never ask for it back. Love shouldn't be something you can return like a present after Christmas, hoping to exchange it for something better or cheaper.

It just shouldn't.

 

The metallic clash of a gate startles her, and she stands up. Footsteps click and echo against the linoleum as she waits. Louder and louder. They're not lumbering like Snair's, but even and fluid.

“Frank?”

“I always knew you'd end up behind bars.” He smiles.

“Snair put me in here.” She stands. “He found out that I don't work for the Palici Corporation.”

“I know.”

“You have to get to the clinic. Arty is in danger—Dr. Clay was killed, like the others. I went to his house—”

“I know.” Frank nods.

Samantha stands quietly now, both hands gripping the bars. She turns her head to the side. “Snair thinks I did it, but he only asked me a few questions last night.”

Another set of footsteps gets closer.

“The guard is coming to let you out,” Frank says. “The charges have been dropped.”

“Why?”

“Well, you're innocent, aren't you?”

“Funny.” She forces a smile.

“I think Snair was just looking for an excuse to arrest you.”

“Bastard,” she mutters.

“I'm not sure I blame him.”

The guard steps between them and opens the gate. Frank thanks him, and Samantha heads down the hall without waiting.

Frank hurries to fall in step beside her. “You shouldn't have gone to Dr. Clay's by yourself. It was dangerous. The killer could have been there.”

“I didn't know he was murdered.”

“You thought it was a possibility, Sam. You should have waited.”

Samantha doesn't respond. Their footsteps echo loudly in the corridor. She looks straight ahead.

“So how did you find him, anyway?”

“The phone book.”

“He's not listed.”

She glances at him without breaking her stride. “Did I mention I lost a shoe?”

 

The blue sky smiles overhead with no memory of yesterday's storm. Samantha lingers a moment in the crisp clean air before getting into the car.

“We need to go to the clinic.”

“The police checked—no Arty or Dr. Cooper. But they're keeping an eye on the clinic and both of their apartments throughout the day. If they show up, I'll get a call.”

“No Dr. Cooper?”

“Well, let's not jump—”

“
What about Meredith?
” The question pops out of her mouth as if the wind were just knocked out of her.

“Who?”

“Nurse Bogart. She works at the clinic.”

“She must have been the nurse that Snair spoke with last night. What about her?”

“She's being protected, right? Snair took her into custody?”

“I doubt it. He was looking for Arty.”

“If Dr. Cooper is missing, the killer is after everyone involved with the study, not just the participants and Dr. Clay. We've got to find her, Frank!”

He opens his cell phone and makes a call. “Detective Snair, please. It's urgent.”

 

Samantha takes a quick shower and changes while Frank waits in the living room. He doesn't hear her enter, and she watches silently for a moment. Standing by her desk, he holds Phebe's porcelain frog in his left palm. His body seems too big for the room, like a piece of furniture that doesn't quite fit, and she wonders if something more than the last six months makes him look so out of place.

“Thanks for coming to get me this morning.” She is drying her hair with a white towel.

Frank turns, surprised to find her looking at him. “No problem.” He puts the frog back on the desk carefully. “I checked up on Maxwell Harris, Catherine's boyfriend.”

“And?”

“His body was too damaged by the train to provide any useful evidence, but the Durham Police don't think he killed himself.”

“What changed?”

“An eyewitness account. A homeless man living under the bridge saw it. A few days later, the cops brought him in for public drunkenness, and he started talking about a guy being pushed off the bridge.”

“Did he see him? The killer, I mean?”

“Not clearly, but”—Frank pauses—“he thinks he was a she.”

“Catherine?” Samantha whispers.

“Well, she didn't have an alibi, but without any evidence, the police couldn't even suggest it, not the daughter of one of the wealthiest families in North Carolina. Even if this guy were sober enough to identify her, it would never stand up in court.”

Frank's cell phone rings, and he pulls it out of his jacket.

“Yeah.” He leans over to the desk and starts writing. “Thanks.” He turns to her. “I've got Meredith's address. A patrol car is on the way there now. You ready?”

“Almost.” Samantha puts down the towel and grabs the jacket draped over the back of the kitchen chair. “So I guess Catherine's parents hired you to find her killer this time.”

“Yes. And on my behalf, the corporation asked the San Francisco Police Department to give you access to any other crime scenes. If it weren't for them, you'd still be in jail while Detective Snair took his time processing the paperwork.”

“You don't need to get defensive, Frank. I wasn't implying anything.”

“Yes you were.” He looks at her briefly, then holds open the front door. “Come on, let's go.”