The Screaming Room (4 page)

HEUREUX QUI COMME ULYSSE A CONQUI LA TOISON

 

That was the inscription etched on the stainless-steel back of Driscoll's pocket watch. Colette had presented Driscoll with the watch on their wedding night.

“Happy, he, who like Ulysses, had conquered the Golden Fleece,” was the translation. She had chosen the verse from Dubellay, the Renaissance poet.

And hadn't John Driscoll discovered in Colette the magical Golden Fleece, the object of his heart's desire? Hadn't he been an urban Ulysses, seeking that other, the woman he would love forever? And hadn't their love produced a kindhearted child, Nicole? Sadly, though, he had gained the fleece only to see it wrenched from him by a driver plastered on Cuervo Gold.

Driscoll was alone in his new residence, the Brooklyn Heights co-op. He was feeling morose, contemplating the inscription on the back of the watch, running his thumb along the etching like someone reading Braille.

He sat at the dinner table, set for one, and filled his glass with De la Morandiere Chardonnay, her favorite wine.

She was afraid of thunderstorms! The thought raced to his consciousness. He recalled seeing a PBS special on the life of Abraham Lincoln. Mary Todd Lincoln, the first lady, suffered from the same dread of thunder. The president, it is said, was known to leave the affairs of state and hurry home at the first sighting of a storm so he could comfort his wife. Driscoll smiled, remembering cutting short his own shifts and hurrying to Colette's side when the heat of the day met the cool of the night, producing ferocious late-summer downpours.

“John, they frighten me so,” she would murmur.

It became his unspoken vow. To keep her safe from the storm…safe from the darkness…and safe from the perils of life itself.

Driscoll took another sip of Chardonnay, placed the glass on the table, and headed for the stove, where he would prepare the evening meal: roasted chicken breast with Gruyère and mushrooms. Without warning, a bolt of lightning electrified the sky over Brooklyn Heights, illuminating the small kitchenette in which Driscoll stood, igniting yet another remembrance.

Colette and he had been strolling the Toliver's Point shoreline when the first rumblings of a summer thunderstorm intruded on their reverie. Colette clutched Driscoll's hands and dragged him from the beach as luminous clouds began to billow. They headed for home. As soon as they reached the bungalow, Colette rushed to the bedroom, where she sought shelter under a comforter.

After the squall passed, she opened her eyes and found herself wrapped in Driscoll's arms.

“Tell me,” she whispered.

“What?”

“Just tell me.”

“You already know.”

An impish smile crept across Colette's face.

“What?” he frowned.

“It's time for some sweetness.”

Driscoll rummaged through his pockets and produced a roll of butterscotch Life Savers.

“Silly man,” she said.

“Some gals are never happy.”

“Just tell me.”

“Je t'aime,” he whispered. “Are you happy now?”

“
‘Je t'aime à la folie,'
you're supposed to say. That means you love me madly.”

“That's right. I do love you madly.”

“And I…you,” she said.

“Then we'd better do something about it.”

“Let's get married,” she gushed, her face looking like that of a schoolgirl.

“But we're already married.”

“Let's do it again! We can have a second honeymoon!”

“Okay. Where would you like to go?”

“You pick.”

“I have a place in mind,” he said. “You'll love it.”

“Tahiti?”

“Arles.”

“Why there?”

“Wouldn't you like to see what Van Gogh saw?”

“What a fabulous idea! I can pack up my easel and off we'll go. When are we going?”

“You pick the date.”

“How about…my birthday?”

“Perfect.”

“Is this for real?”

“Sure it is.”

All talk ceased. Eyes danced. Hands intertwined. Driscoll leaned in and placed a soft kiss on her neck.

“What say we start the honeymoon now?” she murmured.

“Splendid idea,” he whispered.

Margaret Aligante had put her calls in to Crime Scene and the Bureau of Indian Affairs. She was sure the forensic boys would do their part but had gotten a “not in our neck of the woods” response from a John Nashota at the BIA. She was fatigued. She had spent the better part of the past twelve hours trying to locate Phyllis Newburger. If truth be known, she hadn't spent much time in the labyrinth that was the NYPD database. This Italian American cop was superstitious, and looking for her childhood psychotherapist in the official archives made her feel as though she'd be inviting someone to take a peek over her shoulder. Margaret, the resourceful woman that she was, chose to cloak herself in the anonymity of the Internet.

Anxiety lay behind her search. And for this tough cop, anxiety took on but one form: men. More precisely, the prospect of a romantic relationship with one. Sure she carried a gun, was proficient in the martial arts of aikido and tae kwon do, and took nonsense from no one. Still, none of these attributes protected her from the pure dread she felt at the mere notion of getting serious with a man. And despite her ever glowing internal red light, Margaret knew she was headed for such a relationship with John Driscoll, once again her boss. They were sure to pick up where they had left off. But now the man was single. Jesus H. Christ! Single! Panic attacks, which she thought she had outgrown, were burgeoning. She knew her only remedy was to seek professional help. But the only psychotherapeutic help she had ever received was provided to her as an adolescent by Phyllis Newburger, who helped her face her childhood demons and withstand their threat. Margaret knew some of those same demons had been awakened, prompting her current feeling of angst. She needed to see the Newburger woman. In her mind, at least, there was no one else to turn to.

Using Google, she happened upon Newburger's name in affiliation with a Saint Finbar's Foundling, in New Rochelle. The Web site indicated that she was the director of placement services, but the article, which extolled and praised the foundling's humanitarian efforts, was eight years old. And so, when she called Saint Finbar's, she was disappointed but not surprised to hear that Newburger had moved on. Where, they didn't know or weren't saying. She thanked the staff member for her kindness and continued her Web search, seeking out associations that might have an address for the woman.

One such organization was the New York chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. A local number was featured, but when she called, a clerk explained that she had gotten a no-hit when searching for any Phyllis Newburger in their database. Good God! thought Margaret. It had been over twenty years. Could the woman be dead?

Margaret ventured on. Her search at Anywho.com produced a long list of Phyllis and P. Newburgers, with both local and long-distance phone numbers. She printed a copy of the listings and put it aside. She would cold-call only as a last resort.

As daylight faded in her small study, the translucent surface of her desktop's monitor grew brighter and soon became the only light in the room. Margaret pushed her roll-away chair back from the desk and rubbed her eyes. It was then, in the twilight, always in the twilight, that her past caught up with her.

Dusk was imminent. Time to get out of sight; make herself disappear. Go to that place. That place of safe harbor, if only in her mind. But as twelve-year-old Margaret rolled herself into a ball and squeezed herself into the narrow cubbyhole, she could still hear the footfalls outside her bedroom door. She prayed to Saint Rita he'd pass.

Some nights he did. Some nights he didn't.

And on those nights. On those Godforsaken nights, when the Lord was asleep and the saints were at play, the door would creak open and in he'd walk.

“Margaret?”

His tone was always the same. One of expectancy.

The ritual that followed was played out in darkness.

“You'll do it to show how much you love me,” he'd say. “C'mon, a little faster. Hold it a little tighter. That's it! Just like I showed you.”

Margaret followed his instructions carefully. The goal was not to upset the man. God forbid that happened. It only made him drink more and Margaret knew what that meant. The alcohol would dull his senses and interfere with his concentration. Even so young, Margaret realized, perhaps not on a conscious level, but realized nonetheless, that sex was, indeed, ninety percent mental. And if he drank enough, fast enough, she'd have to do it all over again. But this time with her mouth.

“You're Daddy's little girl, aren't you?” he'd stammer. “You love your Daddy, don't you? Now, slow it down. Just use your palm on the tip. That's it! Oh, yeah! Slower, now. A little slower. That's it! Ohhh…”

The sound of the phone ringing shattered the nightmare.

“Hello,” she managed.

The voice was familiar but she couldn't place it; part of her was still under the influence of the terrifying memory

“This is Claire. Claire Bartlett. From the foundling? You called our office. Left this number?”

“Oh? Oh, yeah. Thank you. Have you come up with something?” Margaret's heart began to race.

“Yes, we have. One of our resident therapists knows what became of Miss Newburger.”

“That's good news. Tell me.”

“I'm afraid she's dead, Miss Aligante. She died close to three years ago. At an assisted-living facility in Nanuet.”

Margaret tried to respond but couldn't.

“I'm sorry,” said the caller and after a moment of silence hung up.

As Margaret placed the receiver on its cradle, she was certain she heard the sound of footfalls making their way toward her door.

Once again that billion-dollar New York City skyline made Kyle Ramsey awaken minutes before dawn, climb atop his Bontrager ten-speed racer, and make a swift dash across the bicycle path of the Brooklyn Bridge. Greeted by a saffron sky, Kyle came upon the runway that led him to the upper stretch of the historic overpass. Filling his lungs with Brooklyn air, he lifted his body to gain increased thrust from his gluteus maximus muscles, and the bike rocketed up the incline; the Edward Jones financial wizard upshifting in rapid succession. As he was circumventing the first stanchion of architectural pylons, Kyle noticed a body slumped against the massive brick column. It was a dozing wino still clutched fast to his empty pint. Indifferent, Kyle increased his speed and continued across the bridge's medial span. By the time he reached the second set of pylons, his spandex biking gear was drenched with sweat. He checked his wrist chronometer: 48.6 seconds. Good. But not good enough. Yesterday, he covered the same stretch in 42.9. Last evening's second martini proved costly.

Someone or something darted out in front of him. Kyle swerved to avoid contact, but collided headlong with the shadowy figure, who let out a groan before running off. Kyle tumbled and crashed into the span's wooden decking. The bike careened against the second brick column of the bridge. The errant pedestrian was now a vanishing speck in the distance.

“You son of a bitch!” Kyle screamed, painfully scrambling to his feet. “You're dead meat when I get ahold of you!”

He righted the ten-speed and mounted it. The front wheel, bent from the impact with the brick column, locked in his grip. The frame looked like an accordion.

“That bike cost me two thousand dollars, you bastard!”

Something else caught his attention. A figure was strewn near the base of the second column. Was that a camera and tripod lying at his feet? Curiosity drew him closer. He bent down and picked up the camera. A Leica.

“That sucker costs nineteen hundred dollars!” he mumbled, fingering the casing, tempted to make it his. Loot for the taking. No? He examined the camera closely. Sure, it came fully loaded with a Summilux-M f/2/50 mm lens! “Wow!” he said, discovering its 0.85x viewfinder. He clutched the camera to his chest and eyed the probable owner sprawled before him.
What's wrong with him,
he wondered?

That's when he spotted the rivulet of blood.

This guy's hurt. And pretty bad, at that.

Kyle lifted the man's head. “Good God, what happened to your hair?” Blood flowed heavily from a massive wound, just behind the right ear.

“Jesus! I think this guy's dead!”

He didn't know what to make of it. If this was a mugging, how could the thief miss the camera?
Maybe,
Kyle thought,
he had interrupted a crime in progress.
His mind wandered to the fleeing pedestrian. Pressing his ear to the victim's chest, he thought he heard the man's heart still pumping but then realized the sound was emanating from the vibrations caused by the pre–rush hour traffic below. His original suspicion was confirmed. The guy was deader than dead. What were needed now were a cop and a coroner. Retrieving his cell phone from his saddlebag, he powered on and punched in 911.

As he ended the call, his focus fell, once again, on the camera.

The sound of the alarm clock jarred Driscoll from an uneasy sleep. It was 6:30
A.M
. Police sirens echoed in the distance. Their wailing was growing increasingly closer. He checked on his kid sister by opening his cell phone. There were no messages. He walked to the window and took a peek outside. Two hundred yards away, the Brooklyn Bridge glowed in the dull morning mist. At the entrance to the bridge were two parked police cruisers, their array of emergency lights flashing. A police helicopter hovered above, its searchlight bracketing the span's northwest pylon. An ambulance sped east on Tillary Street, the bridge's Brooklyn foothold.

I guess the Thirty-ninth Airborne is on its way, he mused, closing the shutters and heading into the kitchenette, where he hit the switch on the Braun espresso machine. The whine of another police siren tore through the dawn.

He found his Bushnell field glasses in the hall closet, behind several boxes of shoes. Ambling back to the window, he took a closer look. There were three more police cruisers parked at the foot of the bridge, lights ablaze. He watched two ambulance attendants cart off a body. There was a man bending over, examining a bicycle. The man righted himself.

That's Jimmy Capelli, Brooklyn South's top dog!

Driscoll found his cell phone atop the kitchen counter, next to his keys. He rushed back to the window and punched in a number.

He watched in amusement as Capelli patted down each pocket in search of his phone. Finding it, the top cop flipped it open.

“Capelli, here.”

“Who dressed you this morning?” said Driscoll.

“Who the hell is this?”

“You look like Robin Hood! Who in their right mind wears a bright red tie with an olive-green suit?”

“Who
is
this?”

“It's Driscoll. And have I got my eye on you.”

“Driscoll! Where the hell are you?”

“I lay out an extra three hundred a month to have a view of the Brooklyn Bridge, and this morning I gotta see your ugly mug?”

“Funny man you are, John. Your landlord must have thrown in a pair of binoculars.”

“That's why you're a detective. Whaddya got?”

“A DOA. He took one hard to the head. You're sure to get a call. This one's been scalped.”

Driscoll's eyes narrowed. “What else ya got?”

“There's some pretty expensive camera equipment lying around. There's even a professional tripod. We're figuring the DOA for the photographer. What brings a guy out onto a bridge at six in the morning?”

“Any witnesses?”

“All we got is an anonymous call to 911. Otherwise, zip.”

“You ID the DOA yet?”

“Guenther Rubeleit. He's carrying a German driver's license. You know Reirdon's not gonna be happy with that.”

“Tell me more about the head wound.”

“It's ugly. Just behind the right ear.”

“I see a bike there. Looks all bent up.”

“Yeah. Looks like it hit something. I'm figuring maybe it belonged to the DOA.”

“Doubt it.”

“Why's that?”

“Tourists don't get around on bikes. Especially one carrying a tripod. It's gotta belong to somebody else. Make sure the lab boys are all over it.” Driscoll heard a beeping sound on the line and rolled his eyes skyward. “Gotta go, Jimmy. I got another caller and I'm sure I know who it is.”