Sleepwalker (8 page)

Again he looked to the floor, found nothing new. He looked up at the refrigerator door. Held by magnets on the shiny appliance was a small white plastic writing tablet he used for jotting down items of importance. It had shifted slightly in the fray, and as Richard straightened it out he read the three lines making up the short list he scribbled yesterday using the blue magic marker clipped to the top:

1) Visit Mom’s grave

2) Call Samantha

3) Dr Delaney, Thurs 1:00

A tiny wave of panic sent a tingling sensation up and down his spine. The first two items could be put off for any other day. But Dr Delaney? He couldn’t miss that! Monday’s visit with the psychiatrist had shown brief snippets of success, and he looked forward to his next trip downtown with hope of shedding more light on his anxieties, his sleepwalking, his dreams. According to Dr Delaney, Richard had finally started showing progress, had begun coming to terms with the loss of Debra. And although the doctor didn’t yet see much improvement with Richard’s sleepwalking, he still wanted Richard to come in for a second visit this week, in an effort, as he explained, to ‘maintain the momentum of our success’. That coming to terms over the loss of his daughter may in fact trigger a healing of all additional woes.

The appointment was for today, Thursday, 1:00. He looked at the kitchen clock. It was 12:45. Time to hit the road.

I’d appreciate if you could make yourself available for most of the day, in case we need to speak with you again
,
Moldofsky
had said.

Was it a crime if he didn’t? Richard leaned on the counter, the magnitude of this morning’s events starting to hit him as a single enigma, an intimidating ordeal that would not be a cinch to deal with. It would encompass him, drive him back down into the weak individual that had been succumbing to his dreams for as long as he could remember. When he looked at the morning’s troublesome events this way, it seemed as if they’d been part of another frightening dream, its characters not unlike the people, both new and familiar, friendly and violent, that had visited him so many times during the night time and time again. The only discernible difference was the vista that was his home--slightly more tangible than the lasting environments of his dreamscapes.

So what if he went out today? The cop
Moldofsky
hadn’t demanded he stay home, he simply said he would
like it
if Richard made himself available. Richard’s therapy, now that Pamela seemed to be history, would be his only means as an outlet for his frustrations. It had suddenly become all too important, regardless if the sessions had seemed so futile up until recently. They were the only true constant in his life. He had to go, no question. If the police found a need to speak with him, then they would have to wait until later. Besides, they might not even call.

Richard had a strange feeling they would.

Richard dressed in a pair of jeans and a blue cotton golf shirt, then left through the front door, scooting from the condo with the apprehensiveness of a thief lamming the scene of burglary. He was certain some nosy neighbors--perhaps the ones that called the police--would be waiting impatiently behind the windows of their homes for him to emerge; he didn’t want to give them much to look at.

The sky was cloudless, a bright burning sun igniting the manicured landscape with golden beams, magnifying the natural tones of the outdoors. The green grass glimmered, the perfectly paved asphalt roads swelling like charcoal veins, the retirees and mothers and children pacing lazily about, three generations of lifelines coursing through the calm environment, bringing vitality to their little world. As it turned out, nobody seemed to notice him, or care. They could very well have been ignoring him, the story of this morning’s disquieting event no doubt traveling fast and causing alarm and trepidation amongst the residents, but it didn’t seem that way. Indeed, on this beautiful day where spirits were high and dispositions mellow, no one even offered a casual glance or hello to Richard.

Don’t be fooled, Richard. Your neighbors, they all know about you. The rumors are spreading.

“They could just be going about their business,” he answered out loud. “They might not even know I’m here.”

Two young mothers approached, walking in the opposite direction along the curb. One had an infant in a stroller, the other a three year-old in hand. The little girl, curly blonde hair and milky skin, looked up at Richard as he muttered to himself. The girl tugged on her mother’s arm, interrupting a conversation on dessert recipes. “Mommy, that man over there is talking to himself!”

Both mothers glanced at Richard, one having a harder time hiding her apprehension than the other. The mother pulled her daughter close, smiled, mouthed
I’m sorry
, then picked up the pace and continued on their path away from Richard.

Hope you got all that blood off your hands, Richard.

Always one to listen to his conscience, he looked down at his hands. They looked clean. It was all gone.

Are you sure it’s all gone?

He turned left at a condo with a yellow Volkswagen parked in the driveway, an elderly man out front tending to a small garden below the dwelling’s front window. Walking past, Richard wondered if the cops were still around (
perhaps that gardener is a cop in disguise, no?
), watching him from some inconspicuous location, taking notes and researching deeper into his checkered past. Briskly he continued along the short curving roads of the complex, darting his sights back and forth in paranoid skirts, looking for any vehicle moving slowly after him, for middle-aged men lazing about with no direction in mind other than to keep their curious eyes him. But all he saw were the early afternoon activities of the residents enjoying a nice sunny day.

Finally he approached the guard station. A repair crew of two grease-stained men were putting in a new gate. The ‘quite a bit of damage’
Moldofsky
referred to as a result of Pamela’s reckless escape had already been cleared, the new gate looking less than twenty minutes from being completely installed. The guard, a stocky middle-aged man with brown-framed glasses, stood away from his post in an authoritative hands-on-hips posture, supervising the situation. He gave Richard a bitter yet hesitant gaze, pulling it away as soon as Richard locked eyes with him. Apparently the guard had been enlightened about ‘
Mr
Sparke’s
’ girlfriend causing all this unnecessary damage.

Ignoring the guard and the rest of the scene, Richard stepped up onto the curb and exited the complex. He paced down
Alister
Avenue to the corner of Caulfield, where he sat on the curb and waited for the bus to take him downtown. Every half hour,
 
a local Fairview Area Transport came by to ferry passengers from the neighborhoods into the village.

1:00 approached, and so did the bus. He turned quickly to take one last view of the rather mundane action at the security post.
Mr
hands-on-hips had stepped out into the street and was staring at Richard from a safe distance. The bus pulled to a hissing stop, the doors opening to admit Richard. He boarded, seated himself, then cupped his hands against the window and looked outside. The guard was still staring.

Only now he was speaking into a walkie-talkie.

As the bus pulled away, a familiar-looking gray sedan pulled out of the complex entrance, blocking Richard’s view of the guard. Two figures were in the front seat. Richard twisted his body and watched as the car reached the corner of
Alister
and Caulfield, then turned left, heading in the opposite direction of the bus.

Peeking back down
Alister
, he saw that the guard had vanished.

You’re just being paranoid. Relax.

“Voice of reason…right.”

This little outburst earned him the gaze of a female passenger.

Richard settled back in his seat, a total of four other riders mindfully going about their business with no worries in the world, it seemed.

He blew out a slow deep breath.
Delaney will have a field day with today’s events. Wonder what words of wisdom he’ll come up with next?

Forty-seven year-old Leonard
Moldofsky
had never once questioned his decision to become a cop. His life’s career had provided a fairly smooth ride in Fairview where the biggest problems were petty crimes, teenagers scribbling graffiti on the high school’s walls, or random domestic disputes that either climaxed to a point of violence or ended up as a family counseling session that
Moldofsky
himself had to bequeath. Twenty-three years on the force. One murder, a fair share of bar fights (and of course those spousal brawls, sometimes ending up more bloody and violent than your average tavern dispute, thank you
Mr
Sparke
for contributing), and countless fender-benders. Speeding tickets, parking tickets, parentless teenage get-togethers that got too loud and too messy, forcing the neighbors to summon the strong arm of Fairview’s law to cool the adolescent engines. Hundreds of common incidences--all adding up to quite a career in law enforcement for Len
Moldofsky
, earning him a lengthy resume perhaps not so rich in color but nonetheless rewarding and satisfying to a man who simply had to provide for his wife and teenage son.

“Turn left here,” Kevin Hughes said, pointing. “It’s quicker.”

Moldofsky
shuddered.
Kid means well, but you think he’d realize that I already know how to get downtown after living my entire life in this not-so-grand town.
Moldofsky
took a left on Indian Head Road, the unmarked sedan hugging the road like a lover.

Hughes scratched his upper lip. “So...you believe him?”

Fact was Leonard really didn’t know what to make of Richard
Sparke
. He seemed a bit too approachable, likable. A kindly cooperative man who didn’t seem all that capable of committing the rather violent crime he’d been accused of two years ago. He was soft spoken, and even today, while angered, his demeanor leaned towards an uninhibited attempt to create peace instead of war. The question remained: was he telling the God’s honest truth about what happened with Pamela Bergin inside his condo this morning?

Leonard was more than confident that
Sparke
had left out some finer details.

Which led to another interesting tidbit.
 
It wasn’t entirely impossible, but Leonard found it strange that
Sparke
hadn’t--or at least didn’t appear to remember--that it was
he
, Leonard
Moldofsky
, who had worked the domestic violence report Samantha
Sparke
filed two years ago.

Moldofsky
had recorded detailed conversations with both the
Sparkes
following the event, and even though Richard’s story had remained coolly consistent, Leonard’s instincts, even back then, had told him that Richard wasn’t telling him everything there was to know.

So what Leonard had now were
two
reported incidences of violence, spread apart in time, the particulars lost beneath a thin layer of mystery, each running deeper than just the indisputable blood on the perpetrator’s hands.

Leonard had always told himself that any hunch, however remote, was worth looking into, especially when there wasn’t much else going on. Clearly Richard
Sparke
had a private little something up his sleeve, and the intuitive detective in Leonard
Moldofsky
wanted to find out exactly what it was.

Leonard blew out a deep breath. “I’m not sure what to believe, other than I feel we’re not getting the whole story.”

“Well…I think I’m a pretty good read on people,” Hughes said. He sneezed at the end of his self-rewarding remark.

Typical cop self-praise
, Leonard thought.
I know it well.

Hughes opened the glove compartment, removed a tissue and wiped his nose. “Did you happen to notice if
Sparke
had a cat?”

“No, didn’t notice.”

Hughes sneezed again. “Ugh…I think I’m having an allergic reaction. I get this way around cats.” He blasted another, then blew his nose.

“He could have had one, I suppose.”

“Yeah. But if he did, then I would’ve started sneezing as soon as we got there.”

Leonard laughed, made a left turn. “Don’t know what to tell you, kiddo. What difference does it make?”

Hughes brushed what looked like a few strands of cat hair on his lap. “Damn, well
someone
has a cat.”

“Maybe his girl has one, and left some dander behind?”

Hughes nodded. “Maybe.”

Moldofsky
stopped at a red light. “So you were saying, about
Sparke
?”

“Yeah...what I was saying is that my gut tells me he’s telling the truth.”

Moldofsky
nodded. “It did
seem
that way, didn’t it? But let’s not forget everything we know about him: two probable acts of violence...both against women he’s had relationships with. First his wife, and now his girlfriend. You know I...” He paused, suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation, yet feeling a need to get it off his shoulders.