Authors: The Echo Man
'Mr.
Byrne?'
Byrne
looked up. Standing at the end of the long desk was a blonde woman, no more
than five feet tall. She was in her early forties and wore pink-rimmed glasses.
She was perky and full of energy. Insomniacs hate perky.
Byrne
got up, walked over to the bubbly gal in white rayon.
'Hi!'
she chirruped. 'How are
you
today?'
'Never
better, thanks,' Byrne said. Of course, if that was the case, what the hell was
he doing at the hospital? 'How about yourself?'
'Super!'
she replied.
Her
name tag read Viv. Probably short for Vivacious.
'We're
just going to check your height and weight.' She led him over to the digital
scale, instructed him to take off his shoes. He stepped on the scale.
'I
don't want to know how much I weigh, okay?' Byrne said. 'Lately I've just been
... I don't know. It's hormonal, I think.'
Viv
smiled, zipped her lips in a dramatic gesture, recorded Byrne's weight without
a word. 'Now, if you could turn around, we'll check your height.'
Byrne
spun around. Viv stepped on a footstool, raised the bar of the stadiometer,
then lowered it gently, touching the top of Byrne's head. 'What about height?'
she asked. 'Would you like to know how tall you are?'
'I
think I can handle my height. Emotionally speaking.'
'You're
still six foot, three inches.'
'Good,'
Byrne said. 'So I haven't shrunk.'
'Nope.
You must be washing in cold water.'
Byrne
smiled. He liked Viv, despite her vim.
'Come
this way,' she said.
In
the small, windowless examining room Byrne cruised the two battered magazines,
picking up a dozen new 30-minute chicken recipes, along with some tips on how
to get puppy stains out of the upholstery.
A few
minutes later the doctor came in. She was Asian, about thirty, quite
attractive. Pinned to her lab coat was a photo ID. Her name was Michelle Chu.
They
got the pleasantries about the weather and the insanity of the people in the
indoor parking garage out of the way. Dr. Chu ran through Byrne's history on
the computer's LCD monitor. When she had him sufficiently pegged, she turned in
her chair, crossed her legs.
'So,
how long have you had insomnia?'
'Let
me put it this way,' Byrne said. 'It's been so long that I can't remember.'
'Do
you have trouble falling asleep or staying asleep?'
'Both.'
'How
long, on average, does it take you to fall asleep?'
All
night,
Byrne thought. But he knew what she meant. 'Maybe an hour.'
'Do
you wake up during the night?'
'Yeah.
At least a couple of times.'
The
doctor made a few more notes, her fingers racing across the keyboard. 'Do you
snore?'
Byrne
knew the answer to this. He just didn't want to tell her
how
he knew.
'Well, these days I don't really have a steady...'
'Bed
partner?'
'Yeah,'
Byrne said. 'That. Do you think you could write me a prescription for one of
those?'
She
laughed. 'I could, but I don't think your insurance provider would cover it.'
'You're
probably right,' Byrne said. 'I can barely get them to pay for the Ambien.'
Ambien.
The magic drug, the magic word. At least around neurologists. He had her
attention now.
'How
long have you been taking Ambien?'
'On
and off for as long as I can remember.'
'Do
you think you've developed a dependence?'
'Without
question.'
Dr.
Chu handed him a pre-printed sheet. 'These are some of the sleep-hygiene
suggestions we have—'
Byrne
held up a hand. 'May I?'
'Absolutely.'
'No
alcohol, caffeine, or high-fat foods late at night. No nicotine. Exercise
regularly, but not within four hours of bedtime. Go to bed and get out of bed
at the same times every day. Turn your alarm clock around so you can't see the
time. Keep your bedroom cool, not cold. If you can't fall asleep in ten minutes
or so, get out of bed until you feel tired again. Although, if you can't see
your clock, I don't know how you're supposed to know it's been ten minutes.'
Dr.
Chu stared at him for a few moments. She had stopped typing altogether. 'You
seem to know quite a bit about this.'
Byrne
shrugged. 'You do something long enough.'
She
then typed for a full minute. Byrne just watched. When she was done she said,
'Okay. Hop up on the table, please.'
Byrne
stood up, walked over to the paper-lined examining table, slid onto it. He
hadn't hopped anywhere in years, if ever. Dr. Chu looked into his eyes, ears,
nose, throat. She listened to his heart, lungs. Then she took out a tape
measure, measured his neck.
'Hmm,'
she said.
Never
a good sign. 'I prefer a spread collar,' Byrne said. 'French cuffs.'
'Your
neck's circumference is greater than seventeen inches.'
'I
work out.'
She
sat down, put her stethoscope around her neck. Her face took on a concerned
look. Not the
you are in deep shit
look, but concerned. 'You have a few
markers for sleep apnea.'
Byrne
had heard of it, but he really didn't know anything about it. The doctor
explained that apnea was a condition wherein a person stops breathing during
the night.
'I
stop breathing?'
'Well,
we don't know that for sure yet.'
'I'm
kind of in the stop-breathing business, you know.'
The
doctor smiled. 'This is a little different. I think I should schedule you for a
sleep study.' She handed him a brochure. Color pics of smiling, healthy people
who looked like they got a lot of sleep.
'Okay.'
'You're
willing to give it a shot?'
Anything
was better than what he was going through. Except maybe the business about not
breathing. 'Sure. I'm in.'
In the
waiting room, three of the five people were asleep.
Byrne
stopped at the American Pub in the Center Square Building on Market Street. The
place was lively, and lively was just what was needed. He staked a place at the
end of the bar, nursed a Bushmills. At just after ten o'clock his phone rang.
He checked the ID, fully prepared to blow it off. It was a 215 exchange, with a
familiar prefix. A PPD number. He had to answer.
'This
is Kevin.'
'Detective
Byrne?'
It
was a woman's voice. A young woman's voice. He did not recognize it. 'Yes?'
'It's
Lucy.'
It
took Byrne a little while to realize who it was. Then he remembered. 'Hi, Lucy.
Is something wrong?'
'I
need to talk to you.'
'Where
are you? I'll come get you.'
A
long pause.
'Lucy?'
'I'm
in jail.'
The
Mini-Station was located on South Street between Ninth and Tenth. Originally
activated in 1985 to provide weekend coverage from spring to autumn, addressing
the issues generated by crowds gravitating to South Street for its clubs,
shopping and restaurants, it had since become a seven days a week, twenty-four
hours a day, year-round commitment, expanded to cover the entire corridor,
which included more than 400 retail premises and nearly eighty establishments with
liquor licenses.
When
Byrne walked in, he immediately spotted an old comrade, P/O Denny Dorgan. Short
and brick-solid, Dorgan, who was now in his early forties, still worked the
bike patrol.
'Alert
the hounds,' Dorgan said. 'We got royalty in the building.'
They
shook hands. 'You getting shorter and uglier?' Byrne asked.
'Yeah.
It's the supplements my wife is making me take. She thinks it will keep me from
straying. Shows you what
she
knows.'
Byrne
glanced over at Dorgan's bike, leaning near the front door. 'Good thing you can
get heavy-duty shocks on the thing.'
Dorgan
laughed, turned and looked at the waif-like girl sitting on the bench behind
him. He turned back. 'Friend of yours?'
Byrne
looked over at Lucy Doucette. She looked like a lost little kid.
'Yeah,'
Byrne said. 'Thanks.'
Byrne
wondered what
Dorgan
wondered, whether he thought that Byrne was
dallying with a nineteen-year-old. Byrne had long ago stopped being concerned
with what people thought. What had happened here was clear. Dorgan had stepped
in between a misdemeanor and the law, on Byrne's behalf, and had done it as a
favor to a fellow cop. The gesture would go into the books as a small act of
kindness, and would one day be repaid. No more, no less. Everything else was
squad-car scandal.
Byrne
and Lucy had coffee at a small restaurant on South Street. Lucy told him the
story. Or, it seemed to Byrne, the part she could bring herself to tell. She
had been detained by security personnel at a kids'-clothing boutique on South.
They said she'd attempted to walk out of the store with a pair of children's
sweaters. The electronic security tags had been removed and were found
underneath one of the sale racks, but Lucy had been observed walking around
with the items, items which had not been returned to the racks. She had no
sales receipts on her. Lucy had not resisted in the least.
'Did
you mean to walk out with these items?'
Lucy
buried her face in her hands for a moment. 'Yes. I was stealing them.'
From
most people Byrne would have expected vehement denials, tales of mistaken
identity and dastardly set-ups. Not Lucy Doucette. He remembered her as a blunt
and honest person. Well, she was not
that
honest, apparently.
'I
don't understand,' Byrne said. 'Do you have a child? A niece or a nephew that
these sweaters were for?'
'No.'
'A
friend's child?'
Lucy
shrugged. 'Not exactly.'
Byrne
watched her, waiting for more.
'It's
complicated,' she finally said.
'Do
you want to tell me about it?'
Lucy
took another second. 'Do I have to tell you now?'
Byrne
smiled. 'No.'
The
waitress refilled their cups. Byrne considered the young woman in front of him.
He remembered how she had appeared in their therapy group. Shy, reluctant,
scared. Not much had changed.
'Have
you been back to any kind of treatment?' Byrne asked.
'Sort
of.'
'What
do you mean?'
Lucy
told him a story, a story about a man called the Dreamweaver.
'How
did you find this . .. Dreamweaver guy?'
Lucy
rolled her eyes, tapped her fingers on her coffee cup for a few seconds,
embarrassed. 'I found his card in the trash bin on my cart. It was right there,
staring at me. It was like the card
wanted
me to find it. Like I was
supposed
to find it.'
Byrne
gave Lucy a look, a look he hoped wasn't too scolding or paternal.
'I
know, I know,' Lucy said. 'But I've tried everything else. I mean
everything.
And I think it might actually be doing me some good. I think it might be
helping.'
'Well,
that's what counts,' Byrne said. 'Are you going to see this guy again?'