Night Visions (4 page)

O
fficer Kincaid wakes up shortly after Samantha looks under the car. She sees the relief in his face when Detective Snair tells him to escort her from the crime scene. Once inside the squad car, he sucks deeply from his inhaler, holding himself inflated so the medicine can work.
Hssst
. His bulging stomach almost touches the steering wheel, and he tries adjusting the seat.

“It sticks—” He laughs nervously, and his breathing becomes strained as if he were lifting a heavy object. The seat rocks forward, then back. If in the end it has moved at all, Samantha can't tell.

“Damn it!” He looks over sheepishly and starts the car.

She senses his desire to talk, to share in the fact that neither or them did very well back there. Sure, she didn't pass out, but after seeing the body, she couldn't stay. Frank knew immediately that she had seen enough. He asked Detective Snair to have someone take her to an appointment across town. Samantha didn't object.

From the squad car, she can see Frank standing by the Sun
fire, staring at the seats, the rope, everything but the body underneath.

As they drive away, she realizes that Officer Kincaid is talking, but she hasn't heard a word. “I'm sorry. What were you saying?”

He looks hurt, but not enough to stay quiet. “It looks like some kind of ritual.”

“Ritual?”

He shifts in his seat. “Yeah, being tied up like that.” He reaches for his inhaler. “It seems like a lot of trouble to go to—just to kill someone.”

Hssst.

Samantha nods. “It does.”

 

The only sign for the sleep clinic is a small brass plaque by the door. Otherwise the building looks like the other apartment houses on the street. Through the now steady rain, Samantha waves one last time to Officer Kincaid, who seems reluctant to leave her here, and walks inside. An apathetic receptionist with dirty blond hair and thick, unflattering makeup directs her to the third floor. “Conference Room Two.”

Samantha shakes some of the rainwater off her coat and enters the elevator.

The corridor leading to the room smells like toast. She isn't surprised by the unimaginative decor: uniform light fixtures, pearl-white walls with forest-green trim, and a smattering of framed floral prints. She has never seen a well-decorated doctor's office—as if bright colors and real art might distract patients from their illnesses. The door to the small conference room is open. Two people, sitting quietly in chairs, look up as she walks in. Five chairs form a circle in the middle, and oak bookshelves filled with journals and rows of identically bound texts line the back wall. Above the dark green couch to her left, a
print hangs in the center of the wall: A woman slides a thick curtain across the sky, bringing sleep to those in its shadow. Four horses pull a chariot through the sun-soaked clouds, and a young man kneels before a goddess with an arrow in her right hand and a cherub on her shoulder.

“Hi,” Samantha says, and the people sitting down muddle through introductions—each of them talking to fill the awkward silences until Dr. Clay arrives.

Phebe, a cellist and music teacher for the Bay Area Youth Symphony, looks hyper and disheveled thanks to her damp, curly hair. She touches her face nervously and straightens her full-length dress as she talks of rain, rehearsals, and the rising cost of artichoke hearts in the same breath. She seems to smile perpetually, even while talking, and Samantha starts feeling somewhat dizzy from listening.

When Phebe stops, the man next to her grumbles, “Artemus Beecher. Arty for short.” He extends his long, thin arm, gripping hers firmly, but he doesn't look directly at her. Both Samantha and Phebe wait, expecting him to say more, but he sits in silence, staring at the floor. After a few moments, Samantha introduces herself and talks about her job as a lawyer but not her troubles with sleep. They all avoid this topic, and whether it's shame or fear that keeps them silent, she can't tell.

She remembers the first time she called Dr. Clay. She was already getting treatment at the Oakland Sleep Institute when she heard about his study. The institute's staff told her of his reputation as one of the best sleep disorder specialists in the country. An award-winning researcher and prolific writer, Dr. Clay had helped hundreds of patients in the last ten years, and he was about to start a small experimental trial. She had spoken with him only twice before her appointment today. Both times on the phone. She didn't ask many questions then. In truth, she's willing to try almost anything.

Samantha still doesn't think of herself as the kind of person who asks for help. She can't remember the last time she saw a doctor before her troubles with sleeping. She is even wary of taking Advil for headaches and cramps. So at first she tried to handle insomnia like a cold, but instead of drinking lots of orange juice and resting, she tried common remedies—exercising (in her case taking up fencing again) and cutting out caffeine from her diet. But nothing seemed to help.

For three months, she slept only a few hours a night and felt as if she was sleepwalking through work. She didn't tell friends or colleagues, because she didn't want sympathy and uninformed advice. She wanted sleep.

Gradually, nighttime changed for her. She started waking up in different places—on the bathroom floor, underneath the kitchen table, on the futon couch. She could distinctly remember going to bed, but after that, nothing. Then about ten weeks ago, she awoke violently from a nightmare—as if jolted by electricity—and found she was sitting in her car. The windshield was misty from her breath. She clung to the steering wheel like a drowning swimmer to a life raft and watched the blood flow out of her swollen knuckles. She had three long scratches on her right forearm. Somehow she had driven to church, parked in front of it, and turned off the engine. Her pajama top was spattered with the blood from her arm, and she could feel a stinging cold in her bare feet. She drove home, shaking more from fear than the temperature. It was 4:19 when she got back into bed, cowering under her comforter and shivering until dawn.

A few hours later, she called the Oakland Sleep Institute.

She never figured out how she hurt her arm, and for weeks, those wounds were the only thing convincing her that the entire incident wasn't a dream.

 

With no introduction and no reassuring smile, Dr. Clay begins talking as soon as he enters the room. His brown socks don't quite match the color of his pants or tweed jacket, and his striped tie is as interesting as the hallway. He reminds Samantha of a college English professor, but instead of dog-eared novels, he carries files and a yellow notepad.

“You are all here because everything else has failed.” His voice is neither loud nor soft, but the intensity of it gives him tremendous authority. He speaks with a kind of reverence for what he's saying, like a man who values the power of words and expects others to do the same.

“Each of you suffers from chronic forms of insomnia and parasomnia—a state in which people can act out their dreams. As you know, parasomnias are manifested in various ways, depending on what stage of sleep you're in. The most severe and potentially dangerous type is the night terror. In its early stages, this disorder disrupts sleep and leads to behaviors in both semisleep and sleeping states—mostly sleepwalking, grinding your teeth, that kind of thing. Over a longer period of time, as with all of you, the symptoms become more acute. You wake up screaming and frightened—unable to remember what you dreamed about, how you ended up outside one morning, how you got cut or bruised.

“In its most advanced stages, this disorder can cause seizures or lead to physical violence against yourself and others.” He pauses to look at each of them. “This is why we're here—to get control of this before it gets control over you.”

Samantha's isn't sure whether he has made her feel better or worse, but he has convinced her to trust him. Something about the dry conviction of his words wins her over. He looks down at his notepad and reads each of their names aloud.

“One other person is supposed to be here.” He writes something about this, then looks back at the group. “For the next week, you'll be sleeping here—in individual rooms on the fifth
floor. We'll start treatment tonight at nine. Bring whatever makes you most comfortable—a favorite blanket, pillow—”

Arty interrupts, his voice tight and frustrated. “What exactly
is
the treatment?”

“It's a form of electrohypnosis. You'll wear lightweight goggles that emit flashes of light and an earpiece that produces synchronized harmonic tones. This will induce a kind of trance state to relax your body and promote sleep.”

“Hypnosis?” Sam asks.

He must hear the waning confidence in her voice, but he doesn't seem concerned. He answers with absolute conviction, as if she had asked him the answer for two plus two. “Yes.”

Perhaps it doesn't matter,
she thinks. He knows that they're exhausted from fighting a losing battle, that they'll try anything to keep hoping.

“When you get here tonight,” he continues, “tell the receptionist that you're part of Endymion's Circle.”

Feeling the need to say more but afraid to ask the question on all of their minds (
What if it doesn't work?
), Samantha opens her mouth. “Why did you choose that name?” Unsteady and faint, she sounds like a high school student who gets called on in class when she hasn't done her homework.

“Oh.” He points to the painting. “That is Nicolas Poussin's
Selene and Endymion.
According to Greek mythology, Selene—the personification of the moon—fell madly in love with Endymion, a carefree, handsome young shepherd. And on her behalf, Zeus granted him one wish. With all the possibilities in the world—love, happiness, power, wealth—Endymion asked for the same thing you all want.” Dr. Clay looks around the incomplete circle. “Sleep. Of course, for him it was a way to preserve his beauty and youth for all time. That's what he wanted more than anything else, and Zeus gave him the gift of eternal sleep.” He looks at Samantha. “That's why I chose the name.”

“So, does that make you Zeus?”

She can't tell if he resents the question or not, but for the first time he seems unsure of what to say.

“We'll see.”

She looks back at the painting, then notices the empty chair once again. For some reason, the break in their circle makes her anxious, as if something is about to go horribly wrong.

S
lightly winded from running up three flights of stairs, Frank pauses in front of Sam's door. He still has a copy of the key in his wallet and wonders, after all this time, if he should return it. He rings the bell, following with two quick knocks.

She opens the door. Her eyes widen with surprise.

“I wasn't sure if you'd be home,” he says, standing with his hands in his pockets.

“I took the day off. I didn't know how long my appointment would be.”

Frank enters tentatively, looking for all the changes she's made since his move to Washington. It's like his first visit home after college; everything appears the same yet different. Rooms feel smaller. New picture frames hang on the walls. The artifacts of the past—picture albums, forgotten trinkets—have been boxed up and placed in a closet. Even the smallest change is a reminder of the way life has moved on without him. There is no history of their love.

The way she stands now, arms dangling at her sides, height
ens his sense of loss. That is how she stood in their last weeks together. Away from him, without desire or passion. Always occupying other rooms, making conversation about furniture, the weather, television, food. About anything but them.

It was her gradual indifference, her silent detachment without words, that left him gasping for air. They could still be together, he pleaded. He wasn't choosing his job over her. He loved her. But no explanation worked. Something in her changed, as if she had decided overnight that loving him came at too high a price. Their sex became desperate. Physical without tenderness, rough without play. She left their bed quickly in the half-awake hours of morning. By sunrise the sheets were colder than the empty room.

He never believed that it was about his job. Another man? Doubtful. They were still spending too much time together. About the man who assaulted her in the law library over two years ago? The man who threw her to the floor and cut her? He didn't think so. She survived.
They
survived—staying together long after that night. He remembers sitting beside her bed in the hospital, holding her hand and trying not to look at the bandages taped across her stomach. But despite their history together, it was all ending, not with a bang but with a whimper. They didn't yell or say hurtful things. No dishes were broken or chairs knocked over. Just Sam and her goddamn silence.

He felt more relief than sadness on the day he left. She drove him to the airport in quiet agitation, as if there were no more words left to speak. The gray sky hung low like damp sheets from a clothesline, and the tires pulsed at regular intervals across the uneven surface of the bridge.
Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.

Maybe she'd never loved him at all.

Th-thump.

The possibility terrified him more than her silence.

Th-thump. Th-thump.

“I love you.” He blurted.

She smiled uneasily as they pulled up to the terminal.

Faster than God created the world, their love was over. And six months later, he was still wandering in the desert looking for answers.

“Sorry about this morning,” he says now. “I had no idea what we were going to see out there.”

“No, it was my fault. I shouldn't have gone.”

“That's not true.”

“Really, it's no big deal. I'm fine.”

Frank sits on her futon couch as she pulls up a desk chair. In the awkward silence, he tries to decide if he should say anything else about the morning, but she doesn't give him a chance.

“I made a few calls to social services and victims' advocacy groups, like you asked. They've had no new hires or volunteers in the last three weeks. I want to try a few more places, and I'm still waiting to hear from a friend at the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. I probably won't know anything more till Monday.”

“After the car this morning, I'm not too hopeful.”

“Well, I'll keep trying. What did you find out?”

“Unfortunately, not much. The victim had no ID. No match on his fingerprints in any criminal or federal employee database.” He pulls out a file from his satchel. “Let's see. The corporation sent a pathologist to help with the preliminary medical exam. It looks like the victim was killed by a knife wound to the neck. There were also rope burns at two different angles on his wrists and ankles, suggesting that he was tied up somewhere else before being moved to the car.”

“Why do that?”

“To make it more difficult to identify the body. To torture him—assuming he wasn't dead. To test out new shocks.” Frank laughs at his own sarcasm. “I don't know.”

She likes the sound of that laugh in her apartment but tries not to enjoy it.

“Well,” she adds, “did you find anything else?”

“Inside the car there were two sets of fingerprints—Catherine's and the victim's—keys in the ignition, an empty bag of pretzels, three cigarette butts in the ashtray, and a tape of classical music in the deck.”

“What tape?”

“You always were a fan.” He looks down at his notes. “It was a Glenn Gould recording of Bach's
Goldberg Variations.
”

“Was it playing when they found the car?”

“I don't know. There wasn't any mention of it.”

“The car was twenty feet from the water.” She leans forward with upturned palms. “Why not dump it and get rid of the evidence altogether? Someone wanted the body and that tape to be found. Why?”

“And who? As far as the police are concerned, Catherine has moved from victim to prime suspect.”

“Maybe she's neither.”

They sit quietly for a moment, watching the light in the room change with the dying sun.

Frank sits up and moves to the edge of the couch. “I've been thinking about something you said the other day. The person she had dinner with in Salt Lake. What if he's the one who was under the car?”

“It's possible. Do you think Catherine killed him?”

“Can't rule it out. I'm going to get in touch with the police in Utah about any recent missing persons. Maybe someone's looking for him.” He stands and adjusts his jacket slightly. Samantha rises at the same time, then turns on the light. It feels too bright in the small room. She isn't sure what to say next, so she looks aimlessly at the papers on her desk.

“Sam, do you want to have dinner?”

“Um, I can't. Not tonight.”

She doesn't want to tell him about the night terrors, the
clinic, Dr. Clay, or any of it. She's not ready for this return of intimacy. She doesn't want be a martyr to the past, to a love she can't trust.

Frank picks up his bag. “All right. Well, thanks again for your help.” He walks to the door. “I'll be in touch. Good night.”

“Good night.”