Night Visions (13 page)

F
rank drives her to a neighborhood near the Castro district, hurrying past houses and shops that blur together. He is uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone on the street seems in a hurry to be somewhere else—bundled in thick coats and walking quickly with their heads down. It is a clear night, and the only people loitering are those without places to go.

The flashing blue lights of police cars make the crime scene easy to find. Light bounces rhythmically off the faces of curious onlookers and nearby buildings. Frank and Samantha get out of the car, and a uniformed officer leads them through a gate between two duplexes. Their feet squish and slide in the soft, muddy alleyway. At the far end, a group of detectives with flashlights crowd around several garbage cans. Flashbulbs explode with a
pop
. Detective Snair nods a greeting to Frank and steps aside.

“We got a call about forty minutes ago. The owner found her while taking out the trash.” He shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Catherine sits upright with her back against the fence and her legs out in front of her like the number 4—her right leg bent toward the left, touching the knee. She is dressed entirely in black, wearing Doc Martens, slacks, and a tight-fitting shirt, but no jacket. Her head droops against her chest, and her face and hands, which rest in her lap, are bluish white. In the shadows of this unlit alley, Samantha can't tell how she died until Detective Snair, as if answering an unspoken question, lifts up her shirt. There is a deep laceration in her abdomen.

Another flashbulb fires.
Pop.

“We found a small gym bag in her lap. It had some rope in it, a book, and two knives—both stained with blood.” Detective Snair looks at Frank only.

“What book?” Samantha asks.

“I'm pretty sure we'll find someone else's blood on them,” Snair continues, and Samantha can't tell if her voice was too soft or if he is just ignoring her.

“Another victim's?” Frank asks.

“That's my guess—”

“What book, Detective?” she repeats, louder.

“A Bible,” he says flatly.

“So what do you think happened?” Frank inquires as two men walk toward them with a stretcher. The yellow print on the breast of each jacket reads
CORONER
.

Detective Snair starts walking to the front of the house with Frank, clearing the way for the stretcher. Samantha follows.

“I'm not sure. We'll have to see what forensics turns up with the bag. It's possible that she was fatally wounded while offing her last victim. Made a run for it and only got this far.”

“And this ‘victim' fatally wounds her but doesn't have the strength to dial 911?” Samantha blurts out, angry both from finding Catherine murdered and from being shut out.

“Maybe he's bleeding to death somewhere or hanging upside down!” Snair says sarcastically.

“Well, that would explain it.”

Snair turns around completely, facing her for the first time. “Her prints are going to turn up on those knives. And I'll bet money they're the same knives that killed Phebe McCracken and Gabriel Morgan.”

“What makes you so sure that Catherine's blood isn't on those knives?”

“Experience.” He spits out the word with disdain. “We've got the murder weapons. We can place her at two crime scenes.” He steps closer to her, lowering his voice. She can feel mud seeping through the toe of her right shoe. “You've done nothing but waste my time since the day you got here, Miss—whatever your name is. I'm not here to teach you how to work a crime scene.”

“‘Experience'?” she asks angrily. “Is that what you call it? It sounds more like expedience to me.”

“What?” Snair sounds confused, then annoyed. “As far as you're concerned”—he points his right index finger at her face—“this investigation is over! You were here to find a missing person. Now you've found her.”

“This investigation is just beginning.” She wants her words to strike him like a closed fist. “None of your evidence proves that Catherine killed anyone. The only thing we know for sure is that a killer is still out there.”

He snorts dismissively.

“Someone is responsible for her death. That person put her here so that we would find her. Why? And what's the relationship between her killer and the other crimes? We need to be asking the right questions, not building a case against a dead woman.”

“If it was the same killer,
this
woman would be hanging upside down from some fire escape right now.”

Samantha looks away from his face for the first time and mutters, “We're missing something.”

“I don't have time for this crap. The only reason you're not in jail for impeding a police investigation is because of the Palici Corporation. And I'll make sure any further access to this case is off-limits to you and your group.” Snair walks to his car and opens the door.

“These murders aren't over,” she yells after him. “You're going to find more bodies. Then what are you going to do?”

“Maybe I'll arrest you.” He slams the door and starts the engine.

 

“What the hell was that?” Frank demands.

“What?”

“You can't be pissing off the San Francisco Police Department in the name of the Palici Corporation. You're here at my request. Now they'll hear an earful from Snair, and I'm going to have to take the heat for lying about your involvement.”

“Give me a break. This is more important than whether you're going to get in trouble.”

She stops and watches Catherine's body being carried to the hearse.

“To die like this…,” Sam continues, her voice flat, “thousands of miles from home. I wanted to talk to her, Frank. To let her know that someone was looking for her.”

“Come on, let me take you home.” Gently, he places his hand on her shoulder.

“What are you going to tell her parents?”

“I don't know.”

“No one should die like this.” She stands perfectly still as the men pass her with Catherine's body wrapped in a black bag.

“No, they shouldn't.”

“No one should die alone.”

 

After Frank drops her off, Samantha drives to the sleep clinic. The silence in the car makes her somewhat edgy. At a stoplight, she watches crowds of people crossing the street. Some laughing. Others somber and serious. Most just cold. Then a woman with a scarf around her neck looks at Sam. She is far behind the others, content to be at a distance.

It's Catherine—the delicate white skin and deep-blue eyes.

Samantha looks again, leaning forward against the steering wheel. The woman's face is different now. Older, more stern.

The light turns green.

 

The clinic feels unnaturally still tonight, as Samantha walks past her empty room to the drinking fountain at the end of the hall. The dry tightness in her throat makes it difficult to swallow, so she lets the cool water press against her closed lips. Placing her hands on each side of the fountain, she bows her head. The water spirals clockwise down the drain, and she imagines herself moving with it, away from this place, away from so much suffering and death.

She tries humming the theme from the
Goldberg Variations
but can't recall the melody. Instead, she hears her mother's voice. Samantha remembers falling asleep, her head pressed against the rise and fall of Mother's chest. Her favorite lullaby was a folk song, but she never mentioned its name or sang the words.

Sometimes, when Samantha can't remember her face clearly or hear the cadence of her speaking voice, she hums every note of that song. It keeps them together.

 

She backs away from the fountain and notices the sound of rustling paper behind her. It is coming from Arty's room. She steps into the doorway and sees him sitting on the edge of the bed, a newspaper spread out on the mattress next to him. She
knocks on the doorjamb, and Arty looks up, smiling weakly. His loose T-shirt and sweatpants mask the contours of his body, but Samantha can tell that he is much more muscular than she first realized.

“Hi.” Samantha's voice sounds hollow and rough. “Anything interesting?” She glances at the paper.

“Oh, not really. This is just what I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“When I can't sleep, I read newspapers. They make me feel more relaxed, I guess.” He slowly brings together the two halves of paper, closing it.

Samantha is surprised by the gentle timbre of his voice. “I find the news depressing,” she says, trying to sound lighthearted.

“For me, it's not really about the news. It's about…preserving the events of people's lives. Making the things we do last.”

“Does that help you feel less lonely?” As soon as she asks, Samantha worries that the question is too personal, so she adds, “I mean, that's the worst part for me. Not being able to sleep makes me feel isolated. Desperate for—”

“Everyone is desperate.”

Arty's words cut her off, but before she can respond, Samantha hears a woman's voice call her name. She looks down the hall and sees two women standing outside the door of her room.

“I better go,” she says to Arty, still thinking about his last words. She walks down the hall and wonders how she would have finished her sentence. Desperate for what exactly? Help? Answers? Love? What did she mean to say? What would she say if Frank had asked her the same question? She isn't sure.

At her room, the taller of the two women introduces herself. “My name is Dr. Cooper. I'll be assisting with your therapy this evening.” She is a striking woman with gapped front teeth and an elegant accent. “Dr. Clay is ill, but he'll be back tomorrow.”

“Australian?” Sam asks, trying to place her accent.

“No, South African.” She seems irritated by the guess. “This is my assistant, Nurse Bogart. She'll get you prepped. I'll be back in just a moment.”

“Did you speak to Dr. Clay?”

“No, a message was left at my office. Don't worry. I won't bite.” She smiles.

“I just want to talk to him, that's all.”

“He'll be back tomorrow. It's time to get started.”

 

Samantha wakes up restless, remembering fragments of a dream—not a dream with a story, but an image.

A hooded figure wrapped in a body-length coat stands before her. His mouth moves, forming words too softly to hear. His lined face makes no expression. She leans closer and closer until her ear almost touches his mouth. She inhales, and his breath smells of hay and animal dung.

The face changes. Skin twisting, tightening. It is younger now, but no less tortured. The changes start happening more quickly—different skin colors, ages, genders. Dozens of faces. Pained. Sad. Suddenly, she is staring into Catherine's face. There is no hint of vitality, like the smile from her picture. Just emptiness. One more change, and a new face forms, somehow familiar—

 

Nurse Bogart enters the room, congratulating her on a successful night of sleep. Samantha nods without really hearing the words. She is thinking about that last face, certain that she has seen it before.

WEDNESDAY

S
amantha can't concentrate on her work, especially after Don's e-mail with the translated letters, so she escapes to the rooftop patio of the office building. When it's warmer, most of the staff take coffee and lunch breaks here. The seven-story building rises above everything else in the business district, and her colleagues enjoy the view. She has never gotten close enough to the edge to see for herself.

Samantha has always been afraid of heights. As a child, she never wanted to go on roller coasters or stand at the top of monuments and tall buildings. She preferred being on the ground, where everything was certain and secure. Even driving across the Bay Bridge makes her knees weaken and her stomach knot. Frank used to laugh at her for being afraid. He is fearless when it comes to gravity and always wanted to take her to high places. She refused. Whether recreation or romance, she likes to keep her feet on the ground.

The patio is empty this early in the morning, and she stands
near a circular wooden table, damp from rainwater. Unfolding the printed e-mails, she begins reading the letters. The air is surprisingly still, and clouds stretch across the sky like gauze covering a wound. Car horns honk on the street below.

The door opens behind her, and Julie steps outside.

“Oh, hi, Sam. I was just going to, uh…” She holds up a pack of cigarettes and shakes it. “I don't imagine you want one?”

“No, thanks.”

“No one in this city does. It's like having the plague.”

“I thought you quit.”

“It's a process.” She smiles.

Samantha looks down at the next letter.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you. A man came by the office looking for you yesterday.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. He didn't leave a name. I just happened to be at the front desk when he came in. He said he'd get ahold of you eventually.” She lights a cigarette and takes a quick drag. “I assumed he was a new client. I'd never seen him before.”

“What did he look like?”

“Tall, thin, short brown hair. Nothing very distinctive, sorry.”

“That's all right. I'm sure he'll come back.” Samantha feels slightly uneasy at the idea.

Julie takes another puff and walks to the ledge.

“Well, I should get back to work,” Julie drops the remnant of her cigarette, extinguishing it slowly with her toe.

“I'll be down in a sec.”

Julie lingers another moment, then asks: “Are you sure you're feeling better?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. Thanks.” For the first time since starting to work for Julie, Samantha notices a small silver cross around her neck. “I didn't know you were religious.” She points to the dangling chain.

“Oh, not in the conventional sense. My mother gave this to me. It was a gift for my sixth-grade confirmation.” She holds it between her thumb and index finger. “She was so hurt when I stopped going to church in college. I think my lack of faith was one of the biggest disappointments in her life.” Julie pauses, her face more somber now. “When she died six months ago, I started wearing it again, sporadically.”

“What made you stop going?”

“Lots of things. A rebellious streak, sleeping in, reading the Sunday paper. Mostly, I just couldn't accept the idea that God was petty.”

“Petty?”

“Yeah. The church says that you have to believe in Christ to get into heaven—that God denies everlasting life to those who don't believe. How can that be? Some of the most generous, selfless people I know aren't Christian. They're better Christians than most Christians I know. So how can they be less worthy of God's love? I just feel that love, like faith, shouldn't be conditional. Don't get me wrong—I believe in God. I just can't accept that God would be so petty, so unjust.”

Her cell phone rings suddenly, and they both jump.

“Hello?…Yeah, hold on a second.” She looks up apologetically. “I've gotta take this. See you downstairs.” She steps inside and the door closes after her.

Samantha feels a chill from the cold air as she turns to the last letter.

The letter slips from her hand and somersaults toward the ledge. Samantha lunges for it instinctively. She misses and gets a sudden glimpse of the street below. Her stomach turns.

She crouches, feeling safer near the ground, and tries again. She reaches for it quickly.

“Ouch!” She pulls back her hand, dropping the now-crumpled letter at her feet. The deep cut on her index finger bleeds purple red, and she scans the ground for the cause—a triangular shard of blue glass. It must be from a broken bottle of some kind, she thinks.

She picks up the letter more carefully now. Her blood has smeared across several words, including Goldberg's name.

She studies the red mark on the paper, then leafs through the letters one more time.

“The blood…,” she says aloud. “Blood.”

She hurries down to her cubicle and calls Frank. As the phone rings, she starts putting sheets of Kleenex around the wound. The blood seeps through each one almost immediately, as if it might never stop flowing.