Night Visions (9 page)

“Damn.” Frank chuckles. “What a cliché.”

They step inside, and Frank pulls open a large curtain. A gray-white haze fills the room. Crumpled sheets cover a mattress in the center; several containers of Chinese takeout lie next to it, and a black book is open on the pillow. There is nothing else in the room. No chairs or posters or shelves. Just empty space. Their footsteps reverberate against the wood floor.

Walking to the far corner, Samantha slowly opens the bath
room door and stops, frozen. The room is illuminated by a skylight. Dried blood stains the white tiled floor, and the shattered mirror above the sink reveals a piece of black tar paper. Shards of glass are visible on the basin and floor. A worn, dark yellow shower curtain hangs around the bathtub.

Samantha stands in front of the curtain, searching for the courage to pull it back.

“Sam,” Frank calls out as he walks into the bathroom, “it was open to the Book of Job. She has several passages earmarked and underlined.”

His voice sounds distant. She recognizes the black mirror and tiles from her first vision and is afraid—afraid of finding Catherine or another victim in the tub, afraid of visions that lead her places too late to change the past. Taking a deep breath, she flings the curtain open in one motion.

Nothing but a rust-stained tub.

“I'm calling the police,” Frank says, looking at the bloody floor, the shards of glass, then her.

As he dials Detective Snair, she carefully takes the book from his hands.

 

When I say, My bed shall comfort me, my couch shall ease my complaint;

Then thou scarest me with dreams, and terrifiest me through visions:

So that my soul chooseth strangling, and death rather than my life.

 

She walks back into the main room, reading the underlined passage aloud. God allows Job to suffer as a test of his faith. Does Catherine see herself as suffering unjustly? She turns the page and for the first time notices the smell of rotting Chinese food.

The front door suddenly swings open, and Samantha sees the outline of a tall figure holding a baseball bat. He steps inside, blocking the light from the window. Her legs feel like sandbags. She tries calling out to Frank but can only gasp for breath. The Bible falls from her hands, spilling onto the floor with a thud, and the figure takes another step. She can't see his face because of the light behind him.

Suddenly, the thunder of Frank's voice explodes behind her. “
Drop it!
”

The bat launches into the air, and the figure yelps wildly as he retreats through the door. He must have seen the gun. Frank rushes past her, and she follows, leaping down the steps and ducking past the olive trees. She can see a skintight, neon-orange shirt bouncing up and down with each stride. His arms flail like a bird with an injured wing, and at any moment she expects the windshield on Frank's car to shatter from the high-pitched screech. He turns onto the sidewalk, still screeching, and Frank tackles him as he turns toward the house next door.

Crouching above him, Frank turns him over violently: “Who are you?”

Standing behind Frank, she can see the man in orange more clearly now. His rail-thin body looks fragile in the shadow of Frank's expansive shoulders. His fingers twitch as he talks, and his sweat-drenched neck expands with each breath.

“Get your hands off me!”

“Who are you?” Frank asks, his voice thin from being winded.

“B. J. Manassas.”

Frank blinks. “That's…quite a name.”

“Who the hell are you!”

“I'm with the police.”

“A cop? In that outfit?
You've
got to be kidding.”

“Well, actually I work with—”

“I ought to sue your ass!”

Frank stands quickly and pulls B. J. to his feet. “What were you doing back there?”

“Feeding that ingrate of a cat. Little pussy peed on my shoes last week.”

“You normally carry a baseball bat to feed the cat?”

“When I hear two cop impersonators rustling through my olive trees, yes, I grab a bat to check on my neighbor's house.”

“So you live next door to Cath—I mean, Isabella?” Samantha asks.

“Isabella?”

“You said you were taking care of her cat?”

“Bob owns that house. I take care of Bob's cat. He just started renting out the back room to some woman.”

“Have you met her?”

“Once, out here. She was smoking. Bob doesn't let anyone smoke in the house.”

“When did you meet her?”

“About a week ago. She was sitting on the curb over there. We talked a bit.”

“What did she say?” Frank's voice sounds edgy and impatient.

“That's none of your business, Chuck Norris!”

“B. J.,” Samantha says earnestly, “we actually do work with the police. We're investigating a disappearance, and anything you could tell us would really help. I'm Samantha Ranvali. This is Frank Bennett.”

“She's missing?” He squints slightly.

“Yes, and a lot of concerned people are looking for her. What did she tell you?”

“I don't remember much actually.” His voice is softer, more genuine. “I had just gotten back from a club and was pretty toasted.” He chuckles uncomfortably. “Anyway, we didn't talk for long—a couple of minutes, max.” He pauses, then adds, “Oh yeah, when she finished her cigarette, I asked if she was going to
bed, and she said no. She said that she didn't sleep anymore. That was it.”

Samantha glances at Frank, then says to B. J., “I want to show you something.” She steps over to the car and grabs Catherine's picture from the file in Frank's satchel.

“Is this the woman you met that night?”

“Yeah, that's her,” B. J. says.

“Thanks.”

A car quickly pulls up alongside them, and Detective Snair steps out. A squad car soon follows. Frank leads all of them around back as Snair grumbles about contaminating the crime scene.

Samantha stops listening to his voice as they enter Catherine's apartment. She looks around, trying to imagine her there. When Snair disappears into the bathroom, she picks up the Bible one more time and opens to the first underlined passage in Job:

 

For the thing which I greatly feared is come upon me, and that which I was afraid of is come unto me.

I was not in safety, neither had I rest, neither was I quiet; yet trouble came.

CHAPEL HILL, NORTH CAROLINA
JANUARY 21, 1987
2:19 A.M.

Christina works the closing shift at Luna, a small coffeehouse hidden in the remnants of a forest. The tall, full trees block any hint of the surrounding town. When it's too cold to sit on the patio or under the mustard-yellow awning of the front porch, people cram inside for seats. The small tables are too close for work, the lighting too faint for reading. It is a place to socialize, to wax philosophic, to flirt. Like its eclectic decor, Luna attracts a diverse crowd—regulars with pierced tongues and tattooed arms, forlorn lovers, people who talk about themselves without reserve and look into your eyes when they speak.

That's why Christina likes working there. The customers make her feel normal, as if everything will be all right.

Two dirt roads leading to the entrance serve as parking lots, and they were almost full when she arrived, forcing her to park
near the life-size statue of a red buffalo. But now, after closing time, they are empty. She can see only a few feet in front of her. Strong winds whip the trees like sheets on a clothesline and kick dust into her eyes. She hurries with her head down.

A hoarse voice calls out like a whisper in her ear: “Christina.”

Spinning around, heart pounding, she strains to see something in the darkness. Then, several feet away, a figure emerges from the swaying branches.

She has seen him before. He is a regular customer. Always alone. He watches her sometimes but never speaks. He must have overheard her name. His eyes, which usually dart nervously, seem invisible now.

“What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“No, thanks.”

Before she can move, he leaps forward. A hollow thud explodes around her, and she feels the coldness of the car door against her back. A long, icy blade touches her right cheekbone. She breathes in quickly but can't exhale. He presses his left forearm against her throat and removes the blade. Her vision blurs. She becomes faint from the pressure, the lack of air.

She hears him panting. His breath smells of garlic and onions. He lets go of her throat and pauses, looking into her eyes. He smiles awkwardly.

Suddenly, she drives her forehead into the bridge of his nose, grabs each wrist, and lifts a knee into his groin. She holds on as he staggers, pulling his right wrist forward and down. She twists her upper body, crashing her right elbow into his jaw. His head and shoulder collide into the car. She turns clockwise, scoops up the knife, and spins back, slicing across his chest.

He falls backward, yelping, his eyes bulging and white with fear.

She takes a step forward and notices a shooting star. It fizzles on the horizon. She feels distant from her body and thinks about making a wish. Crouching above him, she lifts the blade again but doesn't notice the butterfly knife that he has pulled from a strap around his ankle. As she slices his chest, he jabs her abdomen.

Holding on to the knife with one hand, he grabs the back of her neck with the other. She struggles to break free and falls on top of him, sinking her teeth into his collar bone. With a yell, he tries to push her away, but she holds on.

 

They both lie in the dirt, breathing heavily. He tries to raise himself by his elbows, but collapses. For a moment, he sees Orion, the timeless warrior, posing fearlessly overhead. Then he closes his eyes.

The next time he opens them Christina is lying perfectly still. He doesn't know how much time has passed before he gets to his feet. An icy wind stings his face as he drags her body to the edge of the forest.

He didn't want to kill her.

He walks home, and as he turns up the street to his apartment, it starts to rain. The water falls heavily, and he thinks of a story his mother told him when he was a child.

Hundreds of exotic animals marched into a great boat as the rains started falling. The ark creaked as if it was going to snap apart, then began floating away in the torrential floods. All the people who had mocked Noah stood on a rock, crowded together, pleading to get on board. But it was too late. The waters washed over them and all the earth. Only Noah, his wife and children, and the animals were spared.

Thinking about this story, he imagines himself on that rock. It is only a matter of time, he thinks, before the waters rush over him.

APRIL 10, 1987
10:17 A.M.

“Butner Creedmoor, you lazy piece of pony shit, hurry up!”

Jake, the driver, slams on the horn. Perhaps the only benefit of working at UPS for twenty-five years is tormenting new runners during a delivery schedule, and Jake capitalizes on this every day. He knows most of the residents on his route and enjoys withholding certain details from Butner—like the fact that Ms. Jackson, who goes “just wild” for men in uniform, is clearly a he, and that the dog at 123 Sycamore is never on a chain. Jake watches from the truck, laughing until his stomach hurts and tears well up in his eyes. He is particularly impatient today, and that can only mean one thing—the joke will be on Butner, again.

“For Christ's sake, B. C., you're droopin' like my granny's ass. Let's move.”

Jake accelerates hard, and Butner leans back, closing his eyes.

He hasn't slept much since killing that girl.
She was going to kill me,
he thinks.
Hell, I wasn't planning to hurt her. I just wanted to talk.

But the words wouldn't come. They never come, and somewhere inside he wanted to scream. He grabbed her. She smelled so good, like flowers and cinnamon. He remembers wanting to taste that smell. Then he felt the fire of a blade slicing into his skin. Why did he bring those damn knives in the first place? To scare her. Yes, to scare her. He had lived his entire life around
people who didn't feel anything for him. At least fear was something. But like everything else he tried to do, he failed. She became angry. She tried to kill him. He was defending himself, but the police would never believe him. He brought the knives.

The next morning, when the marks on his chest looked more like cat scratches than a knife wound, he wasn't sure what had happened—not until the television news reports. The pictures of her on-screen were radiant. More beautiful than any movie star or princess, too perfect for words. He thought of turning himself in, convinced that the police would find him in a matter of days. He kept going to work, enduring Jake's pranks, and wondering when the cops would come.

But no one came.

The nightmares became unbearable, and sometimes he felt relieved not to sleep. Bodies suspended upside down, bleeding into a red, flowing river. A circle carved into each chest. He never recognizes their faces, but he can see them clearly. Gradually each face starts to change, one anguished expression fusing into the next. Before waking, he always sees the same face on every body—Christina's. Her eyes open and her mouth moves soundlessly, saying words that he can't hear. Then his shirt becomes damp and sticky from an invisible wound.

“Nap time is over, big guy. We got a package for 1310 Willow Drive.” Jake points to a one-story yellow house with large bay windows. Much of the front room is visible from the street—the back of a couch, a china cabinet and matching dining room table, a simple but elegant chandelier. Butner grabs the clipboard and a small box from the back of the truck.

Before ringing the doorbell, he looks back at Jake, who stifles a laugh. The front door swings open, and an enormously overweight man without any clothes on steps onto the porch.

“Hello?”

“Uh…” Butner turns away, trying to figure out what to say.

“You have a package for me?” The voice is deep and jolly.

“Yes…uh…” Butner looks intently at the clipboard, then at the man's marshmallow feet and hairy legs. “Mr. Lawrence Cassuto?”

“Yep.” He takes the package, signs for it, and bellows, “Hey, Jake. How's it hanging?” His flesh ripples with each word, and Butner can feel his own face and neck turn red.

“Low and lively, Larry. How about you?”

“See for yourself.”

They both laugh, and Butner smiles awkwardly. Jake had probably been waiting for weeks to deliver a package to Larry, the naked man.

Butner turns to him as he climbs back into the truck, muttering, “No job is worth this.”

APRIL 11, 1987
3:57 A.M.

From the rooftop of his nine-story apartment building, the city looks peaceful and dark. Another nightmare had driven Butner out of bed—his T-shirt soaked with sweat and cheeks moist from tears. He doesn't remember getting dressed and walking to the roof. He's not sure why he's standing at the ledge, looking out at the quiet with envy and loathing. His bare feet sting, and the cold drizzle makes his face numb.

Like the people who mocked Noah, Butner watches the blackness for some sign of forgiveness. The tide rises, and there is only one thing left to do—one thing to stop the visions, the sleepless nights, the constant fear of discovery.

He leaps.

With arms outstretched, his body arcs over the ledge. For a
moment, just the briefest instant, he seems to float, not like a bird but like something lighter…high above the night, free from himself, the past, and a terrible future….

6:23 A.M.

Lying beneath the bumpers of two parked cars, Butner wakes up with a headache. He tries to push himself up, but his body tingles as if he is thawing from a deep cold. He looks at his hand, which is smeared with red, and rubs his fingers together—transmission fluid. The strong stench of motor oil makes him nauseous, and the puddles on the moist ground glisten with rainbow colors. Rolling onto his back, he sees a long grassy incline leading from his apartment building to the parking lot. The grass is ripped and matted down in a path toward his body. A deep impression marks the spot where he first hit the ground and started rolling downhill.

He gets up slowly—his body aching as if he's pulled muscles all over—and takes an elevator to his room. Nothing feels broken. Only scrapes and bruises. Falling into bed, he looks at the ceiling and, as if in answer to his prayers, falls asleep.