Night Visions (15 page)

T
hrough the opening elevator doors, the sleep floor of the clinic seems abandoned. The empty hall and dim lights make everything feel hushed, and Samantha hurries quietly to her room like a latecomer to Sunday services.

Inside, Dr. Cooper is studying several charts attached to a clipboard. She checks her watch before looking up.

Samantha is twenty minutes late.

“Are you going to get ready?” Dr. Cooper asks sharply, then calls for the nurse.

“Sorry.” Samantha expects Dr. Cooper to leave so she can undress, but apparently her tardiness makes such a courtesy unnecessary. She removes her bra without taking off her shirt, feeling uneasy as Dr. Cooper watches her body with clinical detachment.

“Where's Dr. Clay?”

“Still sick.”

“Did you speak to him?”

“I'm not a secretary, Samantha. He left a message with my office saying he'd be out again.”

Samantha slides her jeans to the floor and steps out of them awkwardly. “I'm surprised he's missing another day. I mean, the study just started, and—”

“Hi!” Nurse Bogart bounces cheerfully into the room. Samantha is glad to see her.

When she smiles, Nurse Bogart's face glows like a blushing schoolgirl's. Some of the freckles and a small scar above her lip disappear. Without them, her other features look disproportionately small, as if she's tasting something sour.

“You don't think it's serious, do you?” Samantha continues to Dr. Cooper, while smiling back at Nurse Bogart.

Dr. Cooper glances up from her clipboard. “Look, I'm not his doctor. He'll be back when he feels better, okay?” She leaves the room without waiting for a response.

“Sorry about that,” Nurse Bogart whispers. “She's really anal about punctuality.”

“I noticed.”

The nurse laughs. After helping Samantha into bed, she starts placing the electrodes on her temples.

Looking up at her, Samantha can see the vertical scar above Nurse Bogart's lip more clearly.

“How did you get that?”

“Oh, a few years ago I was on a vacation in Brazil with some girlfriends, and one morning I woke up with this bump on my lip. I thought it was a pimple or something, but every day it got bigger and bigger until it split open.”

“What happened?”

“I don't know. I went to several dermatologists, but none of them had ever seen anything like it. One thought it was an allergic reaction to a bug bite, but he wasn't sure. That's the strangest part.”

“What?”

“Like you, everybody notices. They want me to explain it, but
I can't. I'll never know.” She pauses, looking at the wires attached to Samantha's body. “I just think it's weird that something like that can happen in your sleep. Without your knowing it, something can change you forever. All right, you're set.”

“Thanks, Nurse Bogart.”

“Call me Meredith.”

“See you in the morning, Meredith.”

THURSDAY

H
arry Houdini could escape almost anything—chains, straitjackets, prison cells, coffins, sunken chests, milk jugs. He made a career out of tempting fate and cheating death—jumping into icy rivers with his hands bound, hanging upside down from tall buildings, being buried alive.

One morning, while resting on a couch in his dressing room, Houdini had a visitor. A young man wearing a black overcoat entered the small room, which smelled of sweat and rotting flowers. He pulled up a chair, looking at Houdini's sallow skin and the dark circles under his eyes.

The visitor didn't introduce himself. He simply started talking, about sleeplessness and death, but Houdini was too exhausted to concentrate. He had another show in a few hours, and all of this listening made him tired. He usually did the talking.

“Some people yearn for the peace that death offers, but you treat death like a game. It isn't a game, Mr. Houdini.” The young man paused, then abruptly changed the subject. “I hear that you
can withstand any blow to the stomach. Would you mind if I tried?”

When Houdini was younger and healthier, facing this type of challenge had helped his career, but even when he had nothing to prove, he couldn't resist a challenge. He accepted with a smile and started lifting himself off the couch to get ready. Before he could stand, the man struck his abdomen repeatedly. The blows caused a crippling pain, and Houdini motioned him to stop, muttering breathlessly: “That will do.”

Several days later, on October 31, 1926, Houdini died from an infection following a ruptured appendix.

 

As Don tells Samantha this story over the phone, her head pounds. She searches her desk for aspirin and takes two with a sip of coffee. She's been unconsciously drawing circles on a pad of paper, linking them together like a chain. She adds one more, and something about the doodle recalls the dream that woke her this morning. A closed fist, partially buried in mud, opens slowly. Blood seeps from a circle carved into the skin.

“Don't take this the wrong way, Don, but why are you telling me this?”

“It's the next part you'll be interested in.”

“Then why didn't you start there?”

“It's a better story this way.”

“Don—”

“Okay, fine. When the stranger left, Houdini tried to follow him. He wanted to ask why he had come, why he talked so much about sleeplessness and death. But the pain in his abdomen was too great. That night, he was admitted to the hospital.”

“I'm not in one of your classes—”

“The next morning, Houdini saw the man's picture in the paper. His name was Ezekiel Armus. He had been stabbed to death in an alley only hours after leaving Houdini's room. The
police found another man by his side, unconscious, who later claimed that he had been assaulted by Armus, then stabbed. But his injuries were minor.”

“Then what happened?” she asks eagerly.

“According to a newspaper article, the man was charged with murder, but after that, there is no record of him.”

“So you think Armus was a victim of the curse I told you about?” Her voice is soft and tentative.

“No.”

“Then why did you call?”

“I'm worried about you, Sam. After reading your e-mail the other day, I thought you were crazy.” He pauses, then adds sarcastically, “Even more so than usual.”

“So all of this is just a coincidence? Armus's insomnia. The fact that both men were
bleeding
when the police found them. There are probably dozens of documents that link these crimes back to the count—”

“You're probably right,” he interrupts. “But even if I found similar stories dating back to the eighteenth century, it wouldn't prove anything. You're only seeing a connection here because you're looking for one.”

“So it's not possible that it's really there?” she adds with notable irritation.

“Well, I think there
is
a connection. You said it yourself. Catherine listened to this piece. Phebe was a professional musician, so she must have known it. Both of them had trouble sleeping. Maybe that's how the killer chooses his victims.”

Silence.

“Have you considered that these clues might be for someone like you? A person who knows something about music. A person who hasn't slept in such a long time that…. that she's desperate for answers?”

“Is that what you think?” Her voice wavers.

“What if you're next on the list, Sam? Have you thought about that?”

Silence.

“Are you still there? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, I heard you. I just realized something.”

“What?”

“I've gotta go.”

She hangs up before Don can protest, and she dials the clinic.
Come on, come on. Answer
….

M
eredith is reluctant to help. Through the receiver, Samantha can hear her tapping a pencil against the desk.

“I can't give out his address, Sam. If anyone finds out, I'll lose my job. Besides, he hasn't called in yet, so he's probably coming back tonight.”

“It can't wait. He might be in danger.”

“Danger?”

“I'll explain later.”

“I really can't—”

“How about this. I'll read out all the addresses for Robert Clays in the phone book, and you just say yes to the right one. That way, you don't have to do anything wrong, and I don't have to call a dozen people.”

“Is this the kind of stuff they teach you in law school?”

“Yes, we have an entire course on deception.”

 

After two names, Meredith just gives her the address, and Samantha drives to Dr. Clay's house in the Berkeley hills. Her
car cuts through the thick rain, and her windows fog from the cold. The defroster, which has been broken for months, clears only a small circle on the passenger side, so Samantha rubs the windshield with her sleeve and leans forward to see. The oncoming headlights are blinding, and she squints like Janet Leigh before stopping at the Bates Motel.

The small, unlit road dead-ends in a stony cliff. On the other side of the street, Dr. Clay's shingled house is built on the downslope. No lights glow from the inside. No flowers bloom in the rose garden beside it. A long hill leads away from the side of the house, and at the bottom, construction equipment surrounds a large rectangular hole.

Samantha runs from her car to the front porch. It is piled with rotting firewood and covered in a thin layer of moss. She steps deliberately to the doorbell. A strong gust of wind sprays her with rainwater.

“Hello?”

To herself, her voice sounds faint, even vulnerable, in the darkness. She waits a few moments, listening to the rain strike the rooftop and rush forcefully through the gutters. She knocks, her knuckles numb from the cold, and tries the knob. It opens.

The entryway feels colder than the air outside, and after she steps over the threshold, she stands perfectly still, unsure if she should go any farther.

“Dr. Clay? It's me, Samantha. From the clinic.”

Nothing but the drumroll of rain.

Two walls of glass face the hillside. A few lights glow in the distance, but everything nearby is dark. Samantha tries the light switch, then a floor lamp by the couch. No power. Her footsteps echo loudly against the hardwood floor as she walks to the middle of the room. A bolt of lightning cracks the sky.

“Dr. Clay?”

Her voice is swallowed by thunder rumbling through the
floor. She steps into the dining room tentatively. A wilted salad has been left on the table, and an overturned glass of red wine is pooling like oil on a damp city street. Cold wet winds rush through an open door leading to the deck. The floor is glazed with rainwater.

Passing through the dining room, Samantha enters the kitchen. Even in the dark, everything seems white: cabinets, tiled floor and countertop, toaster oven, microwave. Two windows look out onto the street where her car is parked. The sink is empty except for a wooden cutting board resting against one side. Walking past the knife rack, she spins it, listening to its gravelly rotation.

Something slams and rumbles beneath her.

She jumps at the noise. There must be a lower level or basement, she thinks. She waits for another sound—something other than rain and thunder—but the pounding of her heart fills each ear like water. She takes a few steps and realizes that she has almost come full circle. The entryway of the house is directly in front of her.

Then she notices a door to her left in the connecting passageway. She stares at it for a few moments before deciding to follow every horror-movie cliché.

The latch slides open loosely and easily. Inside, a narrow spiral staircase descends sharply, but it's too dark to see beyond a few steps. Samantha reaches for a light switch, feeling along the wall. She finds it, sliding it up, but nothing happens. She turns back to the kitchen and starts looking through drawers for a flashlight: utensils, matches, rubber bands, plastic bags, tinfoil, a deck of cards. She finds one. With batteries.

Another crash.

It sounds much louder through the open door, and she almost drops the light. She imagines hearing heavy footsteps behind her and the background music from
Halloween.
Before losing her courage altogether, she starts down the steps.

The crimson walls seem thick with moisture but are dry to the touch. The light bounces off them at angles, and the glow makes her hands look red. Her shoes squeak on the small steps, and she almost loses her balance at the first turn. Bracing herself against the wall, she continues more slowly. The space seems tighter and warmer with each step. She considers taking off her jacket, but then something drips on her head. She leans back against the wall, thinking about the woman who found Phebe. Another drop falls from the ceiling. She exhales and shines the flashlight overhead. Water. A leak from the rain.

The basement at the bottom of the stairs is small and cluttered. With her first step, Samantha accidentally kicks an open toolbox. The scraping clash of metal tools against the cement makes her cringe. So much for the element of surprise, she thinks. A clothesline draped with towels and shirts divides the room. A washer and dryer stick out from beneath the staircase, and several cardboard boxes, labeled with a black felt-tip pen, have been stacked against the west wall—Books, Ugly Clothes, College Notes, Trains.

Another crash. The walls shudder.

It's coming from somewhere behind the closed door at the other end of the room. Samantha walks to it slowly and grabs the brass handle. It turns easily, but the door won't open. She tries again, wrestling with the warped plywood. Pushing with her shoulder, she opens it abruptly. She stumbles into a studio with a grand piano, a cello, shelves of music, an old couch, and a covered easel. It's cold and damp from another open door leading to the backyard.

Samantha moves through the room toward the easel and lifts the cover. A face glued together from other images, a collage. Different-colored eyes, asymmetrical ears, cheeks that droop under the weight of so many angular parts. It doesn't look like one face but like hundreds, staring out both individually and
together. Each one taking shape for a moment before getting lost in the others.

But the face isn't complete. There is an empty space where the mouth should be and a partial chin. Samantha wonders how many more pieces will be needed to finish it. Looking more closely, she imagines seeing Dr. Clay's face lost somewhere inside.

The door swings open from a gust of wind and slams into the piano bench. Moving to the door frame, she looks outside. The rain falls thick as party streamers in the white beam of her flashlight, and the muddy ground slides steadily toward that rectangular hole at the bottom of the slope. She pulls her jacket tighter and steps outside, almost slipping several times as she makes her way to the pit. From the construction equipment, she assumes that a patio and small swimming pool are being built.

A ladder leans against one side of the pit and descends about six feet into the ground. The uneven bottom is covered with a thin layer of water, and the walls seem to vibrate with oozing mud. The light reflects off something silver, and Samantha levels the beam. She is too far away to see the shape clearly, but it has an oddly lustrous surface. She leans closer. It shines like a distant star on a still, black night.

The wind-blown rain stings her face as she steadies the ladder. It sinks slightly into the ground with each step, shifting under the weight of her body. She steps off the last rung, grimacing as mud spills over her ankles. She smells the fresh soil as she walks to the center of the pit. Her right foot disappears into a deep puddle, and she pulls up too quickly. The shoe slips off with a slurping sound.

“Damn it!”

She stoops down and sticks her hand into the mud, feeling for the shoe. It is icy cold and thick. Her nose wrinkles as she reaches deeper. Nothing. She lifts up her hand. Dark slime drips from it slowly.

She is about to try again when she notices the silvery object near her feet. She picks it up—a watch, partially buried in the mud. She wonders if it is Dr. Clay's but can't remember him wearing one.

The beam of light catches another object. Something protruding from the ground a few feet from her, near the opposite wall. She moves closer, feeling the slime seep through her sock with every step. It looks like a pronged garden tool. She reaches for it. It's smoother than she expects—

Fingers…a hand…an arm stretching to the wall.

She drops the flashlight, loses balance, and falls sideways onto her knees. In a crawl, she lunges forward, seeing the outline of a body upside down against the wall. She starts wiping, frantic. She can see part of a shirt. Moving her hands closer to the ground, she feels a face taking shape underneath her fingers and palms. A body suspended from above. She searches for her flashlight. Thick handfuls of slime ooze between her fingers. She feels the metal rod in her hand. The light flickers, visible again above the murky water.

Dr. Clay.

Samantha stands up. With the light, she can trace his body, doused in mud, hanging against the wall of the pit. His ankles bound with rope and fastened to something over the ledge. His arms loose, lying on the ground beneath him. She shines the light on his face again. His mouth is slightly open.

She thinks of the black space on the canvas.

Stumbling toward the ladder, she wants to scream and weep at the same time. She steps onto the first rung, and a light shines from above her. She can see the outline of a figure standing on the ledge. The light blinds her. A voice calls out, but she can't discern any words. At that moment, she imagines suffocating, the mud closing in around her. With each step, the ladder only
seems to sink farther into the ground, and she wonders if she'll ever find a way out.

She wonders if Houdini could.

 

Dripping with mud, handcuffed, soaking wet, and missing a shoe, Samantha sits in the backseat of a squad car. The police officer patrolling the neighborhood that night saw a flashlight beam bouncing up and down in the yard. He decided to take a closer look and found someone crouching in front of Dr. Clay's body. Samantha didn't try to explain herself as he helped her out of the pit. She merely said, “Call Detective Snair.”

“Who the hell is that?” He put her in the car and called for backup.

Over a dozen officers are searching the house and backyard when Snair shows up with Officer Kincaid and the forensics team from Phebe's apartment. Snair speaks with several men from the Berkeley Police Department before walking over to Samantha and opening the door.

“Officer Kincaid is going to take you to the station for questioning.”

Kincaid stands a few feet behind him, smiling sheepishly.

“What do you want to know?” Sam asks as she holds the blanket around her shoulders for warmth.

“Not here,” Snair says.

“Why not?” Samantha snaps. “I'm tired and dirty, and I want to go home as soon as possible.”

“That's not going to happen. You're under arrest for the murder of Dr. Robert Clay.”

“What!”

“Officer Kincaid will—”

“Are you out of your mind?” She leans forward.

“Don't move,” Snair says forcefully. His expression doesn't
change. “You were found positioning the victim's body in his backyard.”

“Positioning the body?”

“What are you doing here?” Globs of rainwater drip from his hard, angled face.

“I was worried. He missed several days at the clinic, and with what happened to Phebe, I thought—”

“You're full of shit,” he says, glowering at her. “You've had access to every crime scene. You knew both Phebe and Dr. Clay. Your prints were found at Catherine's place, and they'll turn up here.”

“Of course they will. I told the other officer that I looked inside first. And if it weren't for me, you never would've found Catherine's apartment. Frank and I called
you
!”

He turns and signals Kincaid.

“You can't arrest me.”

“I already have.” He starts to walk away.

“Snair…Snair!”

He turns around.

“What aren't you telling me?”

He steps back to the open door, leaning close enough to be inside. “You don't work for the Palici Corporation. I checked. They've never even heard of you.” He stops, turning to Kincaid. “Get her out of here.”

“Come on, Snair. That doesn't make me a killer. Frank asked for my help with Catherine's disappearance.” His expression remains stony. “You can't possibly think I committed these crimes.”

“I'll tell you what I think. I think you're a liar who's going to spend the night in jail. Kincaid”—his face in profile to her—“she talks to no one but me.”

“Someone else is in danger. Go to the clinic. Ask about Endymion's Circle. Find a patient named Arty.” Her voice gets
louder with each command as he walks to the house. “There's not much time!”

“Come on, Ms. Ranvali. We need to go.” Kincaid looks at her nervously, then pulls out his inhaler.

Hssst
.