Night Visions (21 page)

T
he narrow alley is congested with garbage cans, cardboard boxes, and recycling bins. The black brick buildings on either side ooze with moisture and stretch high into the cloudy sky. Fire escapes dangle like spiders above their prey, and the air howls with every gust of wind.

“Frank?” Samantha calls out tentatively, her voice flat against the indifferent walls.

She moves unsteadily to the other end, navigating through spilled garbage, rotten meat, and spoiled vegetables. She looks up through the ominous black grates and feels a fresh dampness on her face. A light rain starts to fall. She steps forward more quickly, struggling to keep her balance. She can't decide what is making it hard to concentrate—the dizziness, her bleeding stomach, or the fear that she might already be the count's next victim.

A dark brown wooden fence separates this alley from the next, and at the bottom, near the center, several broken boards form a hole large enough to crawl through. A dented Dumpster protrudes several feet from the building on her left. She freezes,
eyeing the space between it and the fence. Someone could be crouching there, waiting, she thinks. Tightening her grip on the baton, she holds it so the bar extends along her right forearm. She takes a deep breath. Another step forward. She stands directly under another fire escape.

The metal groans, and she looks up. The platform above her wobbles briefly, but she can't see anything distinct in the shadows. The rain falls more impatiently now, and she focuses again on the space between the Dumpster and the fence. Her muscles tense with each step.

The noise above her sounds different this time, heavier, like something snapping and releasing. She shuffles backward just in time to see him leaping off the platform. His coat flutters at his sides like a crow's wings, and his body looks rigid. She braces herself as he lands a few feet in front of her.

At the same instant, they both kick. Their shins collide and snap back into place. Samantha swings the baton hard into his jaw and kicks once again. Her right foot crashes into the side of his knee. He buckles.

She aims the baton for his head again, to knock him out, but he ducks underneath her arm. An electric pain shoots through her body as the knife slices across her side. She stumbles.

He moves with her, and Samantha can see that he is about to swing his left hand. Like a poor fencer, he telegraphs the attack. She slides forward with her right foot, smashing the baton into his wrist as he swings, then pivots toward his body, whipping it across his face. He spins into a fall, landing on his left shoulder. Immediately, he thrusts his right foot into her shin. Samantha drops hard, the full weight of her body smacking into the ground on her right side.

The baton tumbles out of her hand. She struggles for breath, getting to her feet uneasily. He is already up.

Before she can react, his heel smashes into her ribs, sending
her into the metallic face of the Dumpster. She spins away from him. The rain drops thick as sleet, and the walls around her seem to vibrate.

He marches forward. A blade appears in each hand.

Moving one foot forward, he lunges with both arms. Instinctively, she parries with her arms, stepping to the left. She ducks and steps past him. He swings his right arm backward, and she can hear the gust of air and snap of his clothing as the blade whizzes overhead. Two more steps, and she dives for the hole in the fence, slipping through in one motion, then pushing herself up on the other side.

This alley mirrors the other except for the building materials. By the fence, a pile of loose bricks and a few bags of lime are partially covered with thick sheets of plastic. She picks up a brick and waits for him to appear through the hole. The rain pounds against the pavement. She waits. Panting. Muscles strained with exhaustion.

What the hell is he waiting for?

The boards of the fence buckle, and Samantha moves just in time. He has pulled himself up and over the top. His right leg lands on an uneven stack of bricks, knocking him slightly off balance. He bends his left leg to steady himself.

She throws her brick at his face, snapping it forward like someone throwing a dart. He stumbles back. The dropped knife rings at her feet.

She grabs it and runs.

Each step aggravates the pain in her stomach and ribs. Samantha wants to look back, but she doesn't need to. She knows he's there. Somewhere. She turns one corner, then another. Uphill now. The strain in her legs intensifies. Rainwater gushes toward her, and she imagines him gaining, only moments from pouncing on her. She can't lose focus and fall. She tells herself not to look. She can't look.

With a few more strides, she gets to the top of the hill. Ahead, a car passes hesitantly. Samantha takes one more step, then another. She makes it to the road, away from the shadow of alleyways and Dumpsters. She rushes into the street. Lights glow from several street lamps, and cars fill every parking space. She turns around.

Nothing.

Samantha watches the entryway of the alley, straining to see something. Everything feels remarkably still in spite of the rain.

He isn't there.

She starts downhill, and the momentum keeps her from collapsing. She wraps her arms in front of her chest, hoping to stop her body from shaking—shaking from fear as well as the cold, she thinks. The wind surges violently, whipping rain into her face. She tries to shield her eyes but can't see through the wall of water. She needs to rest, to take cover, to get help. But she doesn't know where she is going. Gravity carries her more than her own will, and she worries that something has already taken control of her.

She runs up three steps to the entryway of an apartment. The dark porch feels wide, though she can't see where it ends. Two crimson doors with black numbers—12 and 14—seem to glow in front of her. Samantha knocks on the left, then the right. She tries again, louder. A chill ripples through her, and she hears water dripping off her body like a faucet.

“Come on!” She looks out at the storm through the stone archway.

Someone grunts in the corner of the porch. She spins toward the sound, but can't see anything in the dark.

“Hello?”

A figure lumbers forward without speaking. She winces at the stench of urine and sweat. He stops moving as soon as he sees the knife in her lowered right hand.

“Who are you?” His voice sounds tired and scratchy.

“Who am I? Who are you?” Even to herself, her voice sounds scared, exhausted.

“I'm the guy who sleeps here.”

Samantha notices a crumpled sleeping bag in the shadows behind him. “It's raining. I need to get help. I—”

“You're dripping.”

“Excuse me?”

“I have to sleep on this floor. You're making a puddle.”

“What?”

He speaks more deliberately this time. “I'm going to have to sleep in that puddle.”

Angry and exhausted with pain, Samantha shows him the knife. It rests loosely in her upturned palm. “I could be a killer for all you know, and you're worried about a damn puddle!”

“You don't have it in you.”

“What!” she ejaculates.

He steps back into the corner and sits on the bag. “You're not a killer, and that's not your knife.”

“How the hell would you know?”

“Because I know killers.” He pauses for a moment. “Stay as long as you like. Just dry yourself off.” He tosses her a hand towel that is monogrammed with an
H
.

“Hyatt?” she asks.

“Hilton.”

 

Samantha doesn't remember sitting down or fainting, but when she opens her eyes, he is so close that she can smell his sweat, his onion breath. He has propped her against the wall.

“Hey, you're bleeding.”

“What?” She sits up quickly, startled to see his face so close to hers. She pushes with both hands on the floor. “I've got to go.”

“You need a doctor.”

Before he can say anything else, she gets to her feet and runs into the rain. It is still falling heavily, but the wind has died down. She seems to be stumbling more than running, and halfway down the hill she realizes that she left the knife on the porch.

“You don't have it in you.”

Samantha repeats the words, hoping that he's right.

She isn't sure where she is, but she thinks the upcoming intersection will cut back to the alley behind her apartment. The narrow street has cars on one side. It rises slowly and steadily, making each step more difficult. She passes four or five cars, then leans against the hood of another. She tells herself to keep going. She looks up at the long row of cars, and the climb seems overwhelming. She tries to move and stumbles.

Someone is walking toward her, and if it weren't for the steady sound of his shoes clapping against the sidewalk, she might think it another illusion. Then she hears a different sound. A voice? It sounds muted, like someone trying to speak underwater. She leans back against the hood of the car and braces herself. He moves faster now.

She needs to act, to do something. The cars and buildings and streetlights and trees spin. Faster. Faster…

She falls before he gets to her. Her cheek feels cold against the wet pavement. Her body's numb. Her heart beats like the wheels of a train coming to a stop.

Thumpthumpthump

She needs to keep her eyes open. If Arty's blood has infected her, she can't let herself be taken over by it.

Thump, thump. thump. thump.. thump…

She can't fall asleep.

Thump…thump…. thump—

DURHAM, NORTH CAROLINA
JUNE 8, 2000
4:27 P.M.

Max rests the clarinet on his right knee and adjusts the reed. He looks up at the score blankly, tapping his toe against the stand. The second movement of Mozart's
Clarinet Concerto.
He has been relearning it for Catherine—as a surprise. But today the melody sounds uninspired.

He feels too tired to focus. Terrible nightmares have been keeping him awake for months. Images of Veronica mostly—her mouth moving soundlessly, the twisted body underneath him, her cold dark stare. Brad and another detective at the station helped him out. They conducted a swift investigation, filed reports quietly, and never asked too many questions. Did they believe him? Yes. But they also knew the value of such a favor, and things were never the same between them.

 

“I put my ass on the line for you, Max.”

“I know.”

“I mean, you owe me and Lucas.”

“Whatever you need, Brad. You know you can count on me.”

“I know.”

 

Her death was easier to keep quiet than Max expected. She had no family or close friends. The story only made the paper for one day. A life erased. Why? For loving him. Was it worth it?
Not a chance,
he thinks.

Catherine hasn't found out but suspects something. She sees his insomnia as a reflection of what's wrong with their relationship. Fix one and the other will follow, or so she seems to be telling herself. She tries staying up nights with him, but he doesn't like having a witness to his troubled conscience. On her own, she started researching insomnia. Now all their discussions seem to revolve around sleep disorders, treatment, clinics.

“Some of the best clinics are nearby—in Georgetown and Atlanta,” she reminds him. She reluctantly admits that the most renowned program is in San Francisco, if he needs to get away for a while.

Max knows that he is short with her, that he hurts her with his actions and words. But lately, he feels as if he is leaning over a ledge—too far to pull back.

 

“You know all that money you raise. Maybe you could raise a little extra without anyone missing it. Hear what I'm sayin', Max?”

“Yes, I hear you.”

“You hear me? Well, what do you think?”

“I…I think I can manage that.”

“Good.”

 

The doorbell rings. Catherine stands on the welcome mat. Her hands fidgeting, eyes darting. She is clearly anxious about why he asked her over so urgently.

“I have a surprise for you.”

“Really?” She tries to downplay her shock.

“Close your eyes,” he says. Max takes her hand gently and leads her into the bedroom. He helps her sit on the edge of the bed, then picks up the clarinet. “You can open them now.”

She looks wide-eyed and smiles with the brightness of the sun. He fell in love with that smile and those misty blue eyes. She has never heard him play.

“This was Mozart's last concerto. And his best, I think.”

Max closes his eyes and begins. The wistful notes fill every inch of the room, and he imagines the entire orchestra behind him. The saddest moments remind him of Veronica—the darkness she always carried with her but masked in front of him. As he plays, Max hears the melodies as a love story. One with pain and loss brimming beneath the surface.

He finishes and opens his eyes. He is surprised that he didn't need the music. Catherine's eyes are still closed, and a tear meanders down her face. He watches her in silence, and at this moment, he knows he loves her. The feeling makes him sink with the realization that it's too late. He has already destroyed everything with selfish lies and cowardice.

 

“This is a good start, Max.”

“A good start?”

“Yeah, I think we're going to enjoy doing business together.”

“I can't keep this up. There's only so much money—”

“Sure you can. See you around.”

 

She opens her eyes.

He walks to the bed and kisses her with feverish intensity, as if it were the last time.

JULY 28, 2000
12:44 P.M.

“It's an important date.”

“Why?”

“Bach died two hundred and fifty years ago today.”

“The composer?”

“I need to see you. Let's meet at eight. Our usual spot.”

That was all he said on the phone, and Catherine was worried. His insomnia has only gotten worse in the last few months, making him increasingly miserable. She doesn't know what to do.

They always meet on the small wooden bridge where they first kissed. It arches over some railroad tracks near Max's favorite Italian restaurant in Durham. On their first date, he took her to Anthony's, and they held hands as they walked after dinner. In the middle of the bridge, he let go, wrapped his arm around her waist, and pulled her close. No one was around, and the fog made everything but his face look far away. He kissed her.

She waits in the middle of the bridge. At a few minutes after eight, he appears out of the fog, like a mystery man in a noir film, his untucked shirt and body-length jacket masking the shape of his body. He hasn't shaved today. His eyes are red.

“Max, you look terrible.”

“Thanks.”

“What's wrong, sweetie? Why did you want to meet here?”

“I'm leaving—maybe for Salt Lake or Reno. I have some old friends out there….” His voice fades with each word.

“What are you talking about?” Catherine says urgently.

“Something terrible is happening to me. It's like I have some kind of illness or something, and it's getting worse.”

“Your insomnia can be treated—”

“It's not just that…. I'm leaving tonight.”

“No! I don't accept that. You can't just run away. We can work through this.”

“Leave me alone.”

“No.”

“Go away!” He glares at her.

“You selfish bastard! For once, take some responsibility for who you are.”

“I am.” He looks down, then says with a rising crescendo in his voice, “Now get away from me.” He shoves her into the fog, then turns, resting his hands on the rail and closing his eyes.

Catherine angrily walks toward him.

“It's not over that easily, Max.”

He spins around and slices her stomach with a short kitchen knife. She screams, grabbing at his arm and the blade wildly. Her hand is bleeding, and the ground rumbles violently. Her legs rattle with the wooden planks. The train horn cries out. He stumbles, and she shoves him into the railing.

He screams. The pain and rage drain from his face. He is her gentle, loving Max again. A loose, jagged rod from the rail pierces his side, and she helps him off. Pressing her hands on his wound, she tells him that she loves him. She tells him not to leave. She pleads with him as the train gets closer. It's almost directly beneath them now.

“I'm sorry,” Max says. He turns suddenly, grips the rail, and throws himself over.

She can't hear her own scream in the thunderous roar.