Night Visions (22 page)

SATURDAY

T
he squeal of reluctant gurneys. Darkness. But the kind that borders on light, like standing in a well-lit room with your eyes closed. Pagers beep, phones ring, footsteps patter, mops swoosh, silverware clatters, television sets murmur.

It smells like disinfectant, sterility.

Other hands have been touching her body, but not tenderly, the way Frank's did so long ago. These hands are indifferent, cold. They probe and poke and pinch. They are not interested in the softness of her skin or the length of her neck. Samantha tries to move but feels trapped in the grip of stiff, cool sheets. Her breathing accelerates.

Someone turns off the lights….

 

Bright, burning-white light. Her eyes open to fluorescence. Shades of white surround her—stucco ceiling, walls, floor tiles, curtains, sheets. Samantha recognizes the hospital trappings
immediately. She got used to them with her father. A metallic cart with a faux wooden tray for meals, a yellow plastic decanter for room-temperature water, aluminum bars surrounding the bed. She searches for the call button but can't find one. The bed next to hers is empty.

A dull pain throbs along the left side of her body, and through the hospital gown Samantha can feel bandages taped to her stomach. She peels off the sheets and sits up slowly. The room spins. She leans back for a moment to regain balance.

As her toes touch the floor, which is warmer than she expects, Frank walks in. He wears a tight white T-shirt that reveals similar bandages underneath. He carries a coat in his left arm. He smiles in a way that relaxes the muscles in his face.

“Sam, you're awake.”

“Hi.” She winces slightly from pain, then smiles. “What happened?”

“You have a mild concussion. The doctor says you'll be fine with a little rest.”

“How did I get here? The last thing I remember is a homeless man telling me not to drip on his floor.”

“What?”

“I was trying to get help, and this guy started talking to me. He said I didn't have it in me.”

“Have what in you?”

“A killer's instinct.”

“I don't understand.”

“I was carrying a knife.”

“So he thought you were a killer?”

“No, that's the thing. He could tell I wasn't. Despite the knife.”

Frank wrinkles his brow. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“I think I'm okay.” Samantha looks down at her bare feet. “How did I get here?”

“In my car. You passed out in front of me, on the street. And I didn't want to wait around for an ambulance.”

“How long ago?”

“Almost three hours.”

Samantha is silent for a moment, still feeling somewhat dizzy and unbalanced.

“You shouldn't have left the apartment,” Frank continues. “What were you thinking?”

“What happened to Arty?”

“The police are still looking for him.” His voice is dry now. Exhaustion has replaced the warmth of his smile.

“We have to go back there.”

“You're not going anywhere. You have a concussion.”

“We have to find him, Frank.”

“He killed two cops tonight.” He steps closer as Samantha braces herself to stand. “The entire police force is looking for him right now. They'll take care of it. You need to rest.”

“You don't understand. If I'm out there,
he'll
find
me
.”

“Sam—”

“When you left the apartment, did you see him again?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Did you see him again?”

“No.”

“Well, I did. Do you know why? Because
he
found me. I need to be out there.”

Frank lowers his eyes.

“Come on, you didn't really expect me to stay here, did you?” she asks with a weak smile.

“No.” He reluctantly holds out his hands to help her up. “I was just hoping you wouldn't wake up so soon.”

 

The rain has stopped, leaving the black streets of Noe Valley slick and shiny. As they get closer to Samantha's neighborhood, police cars crowd the streets. She asks Frank to take her to the place where he found her. It's much farther away than she expects—in an area that seems unfamiliar at first. Frank's car squeezes by a narrow row of diagonally parked cars. He pulls into an open spot. One street lamp glows blue-green; the other is unlit.

“You fell right there.” He points through the window, then turns off the engine.

Samantha gets out of the car. She can smell beer from an open can in the gutter.

“I was coming from this direction?”

“Yes.”

She walks to the corner, with Frank following silently. The steep hill to her left seems to rise like a drawbridge. Steady streams of water race down each gutter. “I remember running from Arty, but not here. He didn't follow me to the street.”

“You think he's still in the alley.”

“I don't know.”

“Where are you going?”

“Up.”

“Why?”

“I'm looking for the homeless man.”

“We can find just as many walking downhill.” Frank looks in the other direction as Samantha begins the climb.

 

The bandages around her ankles have become loose, and they rub against her skin like sandpaper. She thinks about taking them off but doesn't want to give Frank a reason to turn around. They walk in silence. She can hear skepticism in the plodding thud of his footsteps, but he is quiet for the time being.

A siren wails several blocks over, fading quickly. Most of the
apartment windows are dark, but she can see clearly. The gray clouds seem to glow, as if reflecting the city lights. Samantha is aware of the thinness of her clothes with each gust of wind. A flimsy, worn sweatshirt and jeans. No jacket. She sweats from the climb, and the moisture makes her feel colder. She begins wondering if the icy air signals another storm. Then she sees the red doors. They seem to glow magically in the darkness. Attached to nothing. Each opening to a different path, a different world.

Instinct brought her back here, but what if she's wrong. About Arty? Goldberg? The curse? Don always tells her that a true historian is not led by what he wants to be true. He creates a narrative for the truths he discovers.

With each step, she is reminded that she is no historian. She replays Frank's stabbing words:
I know you've always wanted an explanation for what happened to you. But this curse isn't the answer.

The red doors stare at her like bloodshot eyes, and she freezes under their gaze, afraid to go any farther, feeling as if she has lived her entire life choosing the wrong door, following paths that go nowhere, that leave her alone.

“What is it?” Frank asks.

Samantha doesn't respond.

Frank pulls a small flashlight from his pocket and walks cautiously up the steps. His skin appears red under the glowing eyes.

“Sam!” he cries.

Like the snap of a magician's fingers, his voice wakes her from the trance. She leaps up the steps. Frank is crouching over a body, a sleeping bag crumpled in the corner. The floor is saturated with a thick wetness. Frank turns, his eyebrows tight with confusion.

“This is the guy I was telling you about,” she begins.

“What are you talking about?” Frank responds sharply.

“I was running from Arty, and I came here.”

“This isn't some homeless guy.”

“What?”

“Look.”

Samantha hadn't gotten close enough to look at his face until now. Arty's throat has been cut from ear to ear. Looking around the alcove again, she realizes that the floor is covered with a mixture of water and blood.

Frank is already calling the police from a new cell phone, but Samantha isn't listening. She walks down the steps and looks into the sky. Several clouds stretch out like torn, dirty gauze.

“Arty must have followed me after all.” Her voice is quiet, a monotone. “I dropped my knife and started running.”

“You're saying the homeless guy used your knife to kill Arty?” Frank has followed her to the sidewalk, holding the phone to his ear.

“He was protecting himself.”

“I'd say he did a pretty good job.”

“He'll be bleeding.”

“How do you know that?”

“Arty wouldn't have gone down without a fight.” Her words are not entirely true, Samantha thinks as Frank nods.

Through the receiver, a voice suddenly says, “Hello?” Frank turns away to speak.

Yes, there would have been a fight, but that's not why he's bleeding
, she thinks.
He's next, not me.

Frank closes the phone with a snap. “The police are contacting hospitals within a ten-mile radius. In a few minutes, Snair should have a list of everybody who has received medical attention for a knife wound tonight.”

“There are a few shelters nearby,” Samantha points out. “He may have gone to one of them.”

“All right.”

The cry of sirens gets closer, and an ambulance turns the corner. This time it's for them. The flashing red lights hurt her eyes. A police car follows close behind. Two EMTs get out of the truck quickly. The officer lingers.

“He's up there,” Frank says, then turns to her. “Let's start with the shelters.”

The blue and red lights pulse in syncopation against each other, and the entire street seems bright with color. At the bottom of the hill, Samantha looks back. The three men are talking at the curb now. None of them look at Arty. The officer casually smokes a cigarette.

The EMTs have other calls to make.

The cop has a family to get home to.

They must stand around like this every night, she thinks. A different street. A different body. A different time. But for them, every night is just like the one before.

 

Samantha and Frank have checked three homeless shelters. Nothing. All of them have been locked and closed for hours. Back at her apartment, Detective Snair tells Frank that only two knife injuries were reported. Both at the same ER, both women.

A uniformed officer packs up cases with the fingerprinting equipment and evidence bags. He looks uncomfortable as Snair watches. Water stains darken the living-room carpet, and dozens of damp footprints lead from the bathroom to the front door.
Mrs. Brinkmeyer won't be happy,
Samantha thinks.

Frank asks Snair to post officers at several local shelters for the rest of the night and to inquire about new arrivals in the morning.

“We need a better description to put out an APB,” Snair says with restraint.

Samantha knows that she has been vague, but she doesn't
remember much—Caucasian, no facial hair, thin face. His eyes seemed white.

“All right, I'll try.”

Snair is about to make a call when his phone rings.

“Yeah…Uh-huh…Where?” He hangs up. “We just got a call from the bus station at the Wharf. A security guard found some bloody clothing in the men's restroom.”

 

The shack of the Amity Bus Depot looks like a small island surrounded by a sea of empty parking spaces. Inside, there are a few seats, two bathrooms, a broken water fountain, and a desk for selling tickets. At 2:47
A.M
., it looks abandoned except for several pieces of luggage in the far corner and a tired, anxious-looking man behind the desk. Snair shows his badge, and the man, smiling briefly and clearly excited, leads them to the bathroom.

The fluorescent lights above the mirror buzz loudly, and the painted walls are yellowish green. The only stall is missing a door, and lines of rust mark the back of the urinal. A few paper towels have been stacked on top of a broken dispenser, and the faucet leaks. It drips slowly onto the blood-soaked, torn shirt.

“Do you recognize it?” Snair asks.

“It's a garden variety T-shirt. I've got several like it at home,” Samantha replies.

Snair's lips tighten.

“There's something over here.” The manager, whose name tag reads
Aristotle Valdez, Supervisor,
points to the open stall. Samantha, standing closest to the opening, steps inside. A bloody white towel has been left on top of the tank.

“Frank, hand me some paper towels.”

“What are you doing?” Snair asks as Samantha lifts the towel and turns it. The underside shows a monogrammed
H.

“This is his. He let me use it to dry off.”

“It sounds like you two were real close,” Snair says suspiciously. “What does the
H
stand for?”

“Hilton.”

“Like the hotel?”

“Yeah.” Samantha turns to Aristotle. “Did this man buy a ticket?”

“I don't know. My shift started at midnight. I haven't seen anyone use the bathroom since I got here.”

“You haven't sold any tickets?”

“No, the last departure was at one-fifteen. We're just waiting for one more arrival.”

“Where was it going—the last departure?”

“Reno. But it sold out earlier today.”

“Christ!” Snair explodes. “Get the last guy who worked here on the phone!”

“Wait a minute,” Samantha says to Aristotle, whose hand is already gripping the doorknob. “How many buses left between nine and one-fifteen?”

“I'd have to check.”

“Please.”

He opens the door, eager to get away from the crammed room and stench of urine. “We'll also need to know where they were going,” Samantha adds.

 

Six buses had left in that time period: to Chicago, Salt Lake City, New York, Denver, Las Vegas, and New Orleans. Except for the last, all of them have made at least one stop already. The Fresno police are waiting for the New Orleans bus to pass through. They will be looking for a white man with a missing front tooth.

It takes until four-twenty for Aristotle to reach the early-evening supervisor. He had gone to a strip club after work. He vaguely remembers a man fitting Samantha's description but
isn't sure what ticket he bought. “It might have been the line going to Chicago or New York. Possibly Denver.”