Richard hesitated, then replied, “No, I can’t blame you at all.”
The circumstances. He awoke that night, long after seeing his own angry face peering down at him; after the intruder in black had been sucked into the vortex that he came to know as ‘the blue light’; after he realized that the image of four year-old Debra had also vanished, leaving him gasping for air and trying to rationalize the reason for his subconscious mind in sending these images to haunt the landscape of his dream-world. He’d been surrounded by utter darkness--a familiar episode that would occur many times again in the future: he’d awake in the midst of a dream, finding his lungs heaving, his muscles weary and his mind at once searching latent memories for clues as to where he went and what he did during the night’s sleepwalking episode. His only clue here had been the rasping, pained wheeze of someone in pain. In the bed. Next to him.
He whispered Samantha’s name. No response except for the same harsh breathing, and then the crippled whisper of a voice attempting to say his name,
Rich-ah...Rich-ah
. Richard turned over, faced the whisper.
In a gentle, hesitant voice, he said her name again.
“
Samantha?”
No answer. He leaned to the right, stretched his body across the pillow and turned on the bedside lamp. The room absorbed the pallid light.
He turned back and looked at Samantha’s side of the bed.
Saw the blood.
The slightly fidgeting form of her body beneath the sheets.
The sheets, whose soft pink tone had been marred with stark crimson blotches shaped like continents on an alien map.
Trembling, sweating, nearly crying, he grasped the sodden end of the sheet, unsure as to how her profound injuries had been caused.
Could it have been the man in black? The one donned in skin-tight clothing, whose demeanor and voice and hidden visage imitated none other than Richard
Sparke
?
No, no, no! He shook his head as tears sprung from his burning eyes. Clenched his fists, pounded his thighs, in denial but knowing the brutal truth of the matter.
The black-clad Richard
Sparke
was an intruder from your very own dream
, his conscience said.
Someone you created. He couldn’t have done this. The only Richard
Sparke
left is you. You did this to your wife, Richard. You did. While you were sleeping.
When he pulled the sheet away, his blood froze, paralyzing his body. For utterly long, nerve-racking moments he could only remain dreadfully still and stare at the bloodied body that was his wife, her face swelled and bruised, chest sunken from broken ribs. Blood, matting her blonde hair, turning it a muddy shade of brown. Lips split and bleeding,
tremoring
, unsuccessful in their attempt to summon help.
He cried her name, frantically wiping the blood from her eyes, uncovering only the hate-filled glare of an accuser pinning her attacker. Samantha gasped desperately for air, the shattered ribs in her heaving chest now poking shocking points into her skin--evidence of punctured lungs. He leaped from the bed in a dizzy fog, calling 911 for help, all the while suspecting the truth of what happened, yet still desperately seeking another more defensible answer from Samantha as to the cause of her afflictions.
You did this, Richard. You did...
They both kept silent until help arrived, paramedics frantically responding to her injuries until she found the
might
to point an accusatory finger at Richard.
He did it
.
“The charges were dropped,” Richard said.
Moldofsky
remained silent. He then added, “Still, I understand your concerns. But I assure you, nothing like that happened here--”
“
Mr
Sparke
,”
Moldofsky
interrupted, holding up a palm. “We’re not going to arrest you just yet. We can’t. Other than the blood on your kitchen floor and a lip that looks as though it’s taken quite a jab, there’s nothing else here that gives us just cause for your arrest. And no one’s pressing charges either. Yet.” He leaned forward, added, “Although I must admit it raised my dander seeing you mopping the place up.”
Richard nodded. “I figured as much. Your guns were pointed at me.”
Hughes replaced his pad and pen. Avoiding the blood, he stepped behind Richard to remove the cuffs.
At the precise moment the locks on the cuffs went
click
, Richard closed his eyes in reaction to a lance of pain from the metal digging into his skin. Behind the thin skin of his lids he saw a brief flash of blue light--like he did earlier while facing Pam as she groveled on her knees. It was as if someone in the room had just taken a photograph. The cuffs came off and Richard looked around but didn’t see anything.
“Just so you know,
Mr
Sparke
, we plan on calling VAT and Fairview Hospital to see if Miss--”
“Did you just see that?”
Moldofsky
cocked his head, peered at Hughes for a second, then back at Richard. “See what?”
Richard shook his head. “I thought I saw something. A flash. Of light.”
“I didn’t see anything. Did you, Kevin?” The young cop shook his head.
Richard blew out a nervous gush of air. “I must be dreaming. I’m sorry. Forget it.” He ran a hand through his damp sweaty hair. “You were saying?”
“Your girlfriend Pam. Her last name.”
“Bergin. Pamela Bergin.”
“Yes. We’d like to see if Miss Bergin decided to take your advice to check into an emergency room. And if you’ll be so cooperative to give me her home address, we’ll stop by her apartment to see if she corroborates your story. If she does, you’re off the hook. If not, we’ll be back to ask some more questions. Fair enough?”
Richard glanced about the kitchen again in an ineffective effort to locate the source of the flash he’d just seen.
Are you losing your mind, Richard, or did you just see a flash of light? Of
blue
light?
It was nothing.
Moldofsky
and Hughes hadn’t seen the flash. But now they were curious, eyeing his skittish actions. He smiled uncomfortably and rubbed his eyes, writing the sighting off to his wearied imagination. He needed some time to think this whole mess through. Alone, with his conscience.
Blue light...
He nodded. “She lives at 338 Culver, the Presidential Studios. Washington building, apartment 5A.”
Moldofsky
stood, his large body nudging against the table. Hughes paced towards the door. “I’d appreciate if you could make yourself available for most of the day, in case we need to speak with you again.”
Richard stayed seated, nodding. He felt like a criminal on the stand. “In other words, stay home, right?”
“That would be helpful.”
Moldofsky
grinned. The two cops, careful not to get any blood on their shoes, turned and exited the condo without thanking Richard. Richard watched them as they paced across the street to an unmarked gray squad car. They conversed for a moment, then slowly drove away.
A million thoughts ran through Richard’s head, first and foremost where Pam had gone, and whether or not he would be able to contact her before the police did.
Given her wild behavior this morning, he wondered if he really wanted to.
Richard spent the remainder of the morning cleaning up the blood. The actual amount hadn’t been as abundant as it first seemed. Between his own feet and Pam’s shoes smudging a lot of it about, then some seeping across the flooring, it had spread enough to appear as if someone had been severely injured, when in fact only a small amount of blood been lost.
More than enough, Richard.
Yes, more than enough to make those meddling policemen raise their eyebrows and slap the cuffs on him (his wrists smarted pretty badly now, red and sore where the cuffs had dug in between the
wristbone
and phalanges), and enough to consider him a suspect for assault--especially if they succeeded in tracking down Pamela, and got her to press charges. Which wouldn’t be out of the question given the unpredictable nature of her actions, and the way the day seemed to be going.
As Richard drained the sink and swabbed the floor one last time with a fresh douse of ammonia-water, he wondered if the cops had intentions of accusing him of something worse than just assault. Attempted murder, perhaps? After all, there
was
blood. There
were
knives. They more than likely had some level of probable cause to do just that. “No,” he said to himself, growing terrified of such a serious accusation. “They couldn’t.” A stab from a knife, he thought, would inflict a gaping wound that would produce a voluminous amount of blood, much more than what had stained the floor. And one of the knives would’ve had a fresh wet coating on its blade, the handle splattered and saturated. The more he tried to convince himself of his innocence, the easier it became for him to counter his irreproachable views with indications of guilt.
The knife you used to stab Pamela,
Mr
Sparke
. It may still be lodged inside her. Or is it hidden in your bedroom closet somewhere?
“No...no...”
Richard, what if Pamela doesn’t show up anywhere? What if she disappears? Then they’ll definitely come back here. They’ll take you in, ask more questions. A lot more questions. Give you the ‘guilty until proven innocent’ treatment until you convince them that you haven’t done anything wrong. And let me tell you, that ain’t no barrel of monkeys, my friend. You’re in deep shit.
Shaking off the alarming thoughts, he filled the sink with fresh water and soapsuds. He used a clean sponge to wash the knives, each and every one of them, until not a spot of blood remained. Once polished and dried, he scrubbed the butcher’s block in the same meticulous fashion, using his right index fingernail to pick away at the stubborn areas. He then placed it in the
drainboard
, inserting each knife into its appropriate slot, one by one, until they all...
One was missing. Just as it had been when he first knocked into it, when Pamela came charging around the island, knife raised and poised to slice his chest open.
The big steak knife. The one she used to attack him; the one that had fallen from her hand when he so judgmentally slammed the pine butcher block into her face; the same one he saw with his very own--and lately unreliable--eyes skidding across the laminate floor. Coming to rest under the refrigerator grill with a soft
clunk
.
Like a hawk, he’d kept his mind and sights on that big knife while confronting Pamela during her tirade, and then again while speaking with
Moldofsky
and Hughes. Yet while cleaning up, it hadn’t even crossed his blurred mind to retrieve it, wash it like the others and place it back into the butcher block. Perhaps he simply skipped over it, didn’t see it while picking up all the knives just moments earlier?
He looked down; it wasn’t there. He fished around for it, on his hands and knees, reaching beneath the radiator grill as far back as he could.
Nothing.
In a new growth of panic (wasn’t it bad enough to be worried about murder accusations?) he unplugged the refrigerator and pulled it away from the wall, the metal feet scraping jagged lines into the laminate flooring. His muscles ached, his mind reeling as this unexplored territory in his kitchen revealed only circles of tacky dust, a few fugitive Cheerios, and an errant olive that had long lost the war to
putrification
.
So where’s the knife?
He glanced about the kitchen as if in search of an elusive cat. Under the kitchen table. Beneath the cabinets. In the pantry. Anxious nerves tickled his skin, not so much for the reason that the knife might be the only piece of the puzzle clearing him of the vicious act he could very well be accused of, but more so because he liked to think that he hadn’t lost his mind after all, that he
really did see
the knife on the floor with its handle hidden just beneath the refrigerator grill.
That you really did see that tiny flash of light while talking with the cops...
Halfheartedly, he rocked the fridge back against the wall then gave the kitchen a swift going-over, lifting the dinette chairs and even going as far as searching some cabinet drawers before resigning himself to the fact the knife was indeed missing. His chest tightened with frustration and toyed with his heart, tears of fatigue welling in his eyes as he stared at the butcher block, at the gaping slot in the upper left-hand corner where that big steak knife should be resting alongside its family members.
Had the cops taken it? Possible, but Richard hadn’t noticed either of them near the refrigerator, much less one kneel down and covertly pocket the eight-inch piece. And if so, then why would they choose that particular knife? After all, the kitchen floor had been littered with them. It would have been much easier taking any one of the others if they felt the certain need to obtain--however wrongfully--some evidence. The only justification he could imagine was that the steak knife had been the biggest of all the knives. That it had been somewhat, well, hidden. A bit of a red flag for the inquisitive eye.