Night Visions (24 page)

A figure emerges like a phantom through the doorway behind her, just as Max did from the fog. She feels his breath on her shoulder, and it takes her a few moments to recognize Arty's face in the mirror, his chipped tooth.

She turns to face him. His body is almost pressed against hers, and she is certain that he can hear her heart pounding erratically.

“What are you doing?” Her words sound weak and fearful.

Arty lifts his hands slowly like someone about to surrender, then grabs the back of her head. Before she can react, he slams the side of her face into the glass. Two large sections fall into the sink, shattering into dozens of smaller fragments. Her face and nose drip blood onto the basin. She can feel him rubbing his lower body against hers.

Everything seems to move more slowly. The light flickers, and her eyelids feel heavy. She grabs a triangular shard.

A sudden jolt. Something passes between them.

Looking down, he sees her bleeding hand pressed against his abdomen. He pushes her angrily, knocking her into the tub. He
then removes the jagged glass from his stomach, and it slices into his palm and fingers. He looks at the wound, then at her. There is more blood on him than he expects.

With one long stride, he is above her, clamping his hand forcefully around her neck. He shoves the broken glass into her stomach. She gasps.

Arty steps back, blood dripping from his hand, and he rushes out of the room.

Catherine can't move. She feels tired, incredibly tired. The cool rushing water covers her body, and the sound reminds her of a train. But this time its steadiness is calming.

She closes her eyes, grateful for the darkness, and sinks slowly into sleep.

 

Arty feels drowsy as he looks over the nearly empty apartment—the small mattress on the floor, the boxes of Chinese takeout, the books by her pillow. He takes another step, then falls, slamming hard against the wood floor. He closes his eyes to stop the spinning. The room becomes still and black as he listens to the moving water.

When he wakes, he stands in the kitchen, unsure of the time or how much of it has passed. He scrambles through the mostly empty drawers until he finds a set of knives. He walks to the bathroom more steadily now. He must finish what he has started.

THURSDAY
OCTOBER 26, 2000
8:32 P.M.

The newspapers in his room seem to grow like weeds. Arty inhales deeply. The smell of the paper, the feel of black ink rub
bing off on his fingertips, he loves everything about newspapers. Most people don't appreciate them. They read only parts and then throw the rest away. But Arty reads every single word. He saves them too. He saves them to preserve the past.

He has watched for news of Catherine, but nothing has been reported all week.

He wasn't planning to kill her. To fuck her, yes, but not to kill her. He remembers her body lying in the bathtub, and the anger in him surges. From the moment she walked into his life, she looked at him with revulsion and disgust. She wanted nothing more than to be miles away from him. Now she'll never have to see him again, he thinks.

No, he wasn't planning to kill her, but now it feels right. She should thank him, thank him for finally enabling her to sleep.

Arty closes the paper and puts on the earphones he took from her apartment. He presses
PLAY
on the portable CD player and inhales again, as if the sounds of the
Goldberg Variations
were air. He opens the book Father Morgan has been reading,
Martyrs and Saints.

A large image of Saint Peter fills the page. His body nailed to a wooden cross—feet raised, blood rushing to his head. The muscles in his face are tight with agony and the painful knowledge that death is coming.

He saw that expression on Catherine's face.

 

“Hey, Arty.” Father Morgan walks into the room and sees him at a small desk with his back to the door. Most of the floor is covered with newspapers, and there is little light. Arty doesn't move at the sound of his voice. “I haven't been able to get ahold of Catherine for a few days now. She hasn't called, has she?”

“No.” His voice is flat. He doesn't turn around.

“Is that mine?” Father Morgan asks, somewhat surprised, as he steps closer and points to the book.

“Yes.” Arty turns slightly. “I saw it in the front room. I didn't think you'd mind.”

“I don't,” Father Morgan says, looking at the image of Peter. “The father of the church. Did you know that he asked to be crucified upside down?”

“Apparently so.” Arty looks back at the image.

There is a moment of silence between them, then Father Morgan says, “I'm going over to Catherine's place. I'll see you later.”

“No,” Arty blurts out.

“Why not?” Father Morgan looks at him, puzzled by the outburst.

Arty is silent again. Lost in the image of Saint Peter, he hasn't lifted his eyes from the page.

“Arty,” Father Morgan begins again, “what's wrong?”

Arty stands up and slowly removes one of Catherine's kitchen knives from the desk drawer. “I'm sorry, Father, but we're all martyrs.”

“I don't understand.”

“It's time for your suffering to end.”

Father Morgan stumbles back. His shoulder slams against the doorjamb as he pivots and runs into the hall. The yellow light of the living room engulfs him. He turns, and Arty is there. At first, Father Morgan is confused, unaware of what has already happened. He grabs his own throat involuntarily and gasps. Blood pours over his hands, spraying away from his neck.

He falls backward, over the couch and onto the floor. He is staring up at the wall behind him, and Arty follows his gaze. The crucifix. From down there, it must look like Saint Peter, he thinks. Upside down and unworthy.

Arty stands over the body for another moment without moving.
I will have to get rid of him fast.

He looks up at the cross and suddenly knows what to do. Like an artist overcome by inspiration.

He starts to hurry now. Tomorrow is a big day. Tomorrow he starts treatment with Dr. Clay.

Tomorrow he'll start to sleep again.

SATURDAY

T
he doorbell rings, followed by two quick knocks.

Samantha hasn't spoken with Frank since that night a week ago. He called once and left a message saying that there were no new leads. She didn't call back. She needed time away from the case, from him.

She reads the paper every morning, afraid of the possibilities, but has found no reports of similar killings. Not yet.

“Hi, Sam. It's been a while.” Frank stands with his hands tucked into his pockets, and he forces a quick smile.

“Yeah.”

He shifts his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. He can't read her face. The straight lines of her eyebrows. Closed lips without a smile. “How are you?”

“All right. And you?”

“Good.” Frank walks into her apartment with a folder tucked under his arm.

“Any news?”

“The police still haven't found him, but we finally came up with something on that partial print from the bus station bathroom. May I?” Frank motions toward the couch.

“Of course. Sorry.”

He sits. She pulls up her desk chair.

“We think his name is Jack Hansen. He was arrested five years ago for assault, then paroled after serving two years. Surprise, surprise, no current address.” He hands her a mug shot. “Look familiar?”

The small black-and-white photo could be anyone,
she thinks uneasily.
It could have been me.
“Not really.” She returns the picture. “I never saw him closely. I…”

“I know.” Frank notices the stillness of her body. Head bowed slightly to the floor. “The important thing is that it's over, and you're safe.”

“It's not over, Frank. The trail has just stopped. It'll pick up somewhere else.”

“This guy was a transient, Sam. You said it yourself. He probably killed Arty in self-defense.” Frank stops, uncertain how to read her silence.

“What if it's not that simple?” she asks.

“Sam,” he says with a steady voice, “Arty had a record.”

For the first time, she looks directly at his face.

“He was arrested for sexual assault in 1997. Apparently he attacked a coworker in the parking lot of her apartment, but the charges were eventually dropped.”

Samantha shifts in her seat and leans back.

“We got the right guy,” he says conclusively.

“We still don't know exactly how Catherine was involved. And how did the killer find out about Father Morgan?”

“By searching Dr. Clay's office. That's what we did. Arty could have done the same thing. And maybe he was setting up Catherine to take the fall, and something went wrong.”

“That explains it?” Exasperated, Samantha crosses her arms.

“What more do you want?” Frank leans forward, one hand pressing down on his left knee. “We caught Arty trying to do the same thing to you that he did to three other victims.” He accentuates the last three words, then inhales audibly. “So all the pieces of the puzzle don't fit. They never do. Mostly we're left with unanswered questions, doubts, fears—the things that keep us up at night. And…”

“And?” Samantha pushes.

“The others are dead now. We'll never know for sure, but at least the killings have stopped.”

“What if they haven't, Frank? Something is happening here. Max, Catherine, Arty, and now this homeless man.”

“Jack Hansen,” Frank adds.

“All of them lost the ability to sleep. They all experienced a sleeplessness that left them so exhausted, so terribly lonely and frustrated and desperate”—Samantha shudders at the word—“that they became violent.”

“And none of these people had the
will
to stop themselves?”

“Not if they were acting in a semisleep state. Maybe they only realized what was happening gradually, through their nightmares. Or at least what they thought were nightmares. Horrible night visions that overpowered them, that made them feel like victims. A kind of curse,” she says the last part softly, more to herself than Frank.

“Sam, I don't believe that we're all potential victims. I can't.”

“Because you don't know what it's like to be desperate.”

Frank looks at her eyes, which seem far away. “Desperate?”

“Yes, desperate to the point where you'll do anything to regain control, to fight the fear that you'll never sleep again.”

“Even to kill.”

Samantha lowers her face and closes her eyes. “It changes you, Frank.”

They are silent for a moment, and Frank picks up the deep blue folder in his lap. For the first time Samantha notices a design. In the center, the profile of twin faces is outlined in silver.

“I flew to Washington yesterday, to report back to the corporation.” The frustration has left Frank's voice. “I talked about your help with this case. Yours and Don's.”

Samantha doesn't respond.

“They gave me a new assignment, and I asked to bring you on—as a consultant, if you're interested. This is the case file.”

She reaches for it, then stops herself. Frank stands and puts it on her desk. “Look it over and let me know what you think.”

“I—”

“Just look it over before you decide.” Frank smiles tentatively, then checks his watch. “I have to run to the station and see Snair about a few things. I'll call you later tonight. Maybe we can have dinner or something.”

“I don't know.”

“I'll call you regardless.”

“I need some time. I'll call you in the next few days.”

He looks at her skeptically.

“I promise,” she adds and reaches for his hand.

Everything in the apartment feels still. Their clasped hands fill the space between them, and Samantha smiles.

Frank squeezes her hand one more time before letting go. He turns, walking slowly, almost soundlessly, out the door.

 

Her eyes open suddenly in the darkness. At first, there is only panicked breathing and the tympani of a pounding heart. She struggles to lift her arms and legs but can't move. Car tires screech on the street below, and she turns her head toward the window. Moisture beads on the inside of the pane. She tries again to move, straining until her body rises like an anchor from
deep waters. One at a time, her feet touch the floor, and she begins to feel safe. Sweat bleeds through both sides of her T-shirt.

The bedside clock reads 3:20.

She wipes sweat from her forehead and gets up for a glass of water.

Standing at her desk, Samantha looks out at the cloudy haze covering the street. Even the sky is tentative, drizzling instead of raining. Not sure what it wants to do.

She turn on a lamp, and the blue folder glows like a jewel. She touches the cover with her fingertips, sliding them along the silver outline of faces. Inside, the letterhead on the cover page reads
The Palici Corporation
. She closes it—unsure if she wants to accept the responsibility for what's inside.

She turns off the light to wait, preferring the misty darkness. She is afraid to check the clock, to start thinking about how few hours she has left before sunrise. Looking at her hands, she can't remember the last time they touched someone else's face. Frank's face.

She tastes the salt with her tongue before feeling the moisture on her cheeks.

A drop falls onto the back of her right hand, then the left. The storm clouds have been building in Samantha for too long; the water finally falls. A hot, angry pain lessens, slowly becoming relief.

The waiting is over.