The Bad Place

by Dean Koontz

  human.

  Before Pollard could begin, Julie said, “One thing, first. If we decide to accept your case—and I stress the if—we aren’t cheap.”

  “That’s no problem,” Pollard said. He lifted a leather flight bag from the floor at his feet. It was one of two he’d brought with him. He put it on his lap and unzippered it. He withdrew a couple of packs of currency and put them on the desk. Twenties and hundreds.

  As Julie took the money to inspect it, Bobby pushed away from the windowsill and went to Pollard’s side. He looked down into the flight bag and said, “It’s crammed full.”

  “One hundred and forty thousand dollars,” Pollard said.

  Upon quick inspection, the money on the desk did not appear to be counterfeit. Julie pushed it aside and said, “Mr. Pollard, are you in the habit of carrying so much cash?”

  “I don’t know,” Pollard said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “I don’t know,” he repeated miserably.

  “He literally doesn’t know,” Clint said. “Hear him out.”

  In a voice at once subdued yet heavy with emotion, Pollard said, “You’ve got to help me find out where I go at night. What in God’s name am I doing when I should be sleeping?”

  “Hey, this sounds interesting,” Bobby said, sitting down on one corner of Julie’s desk.

  Bobby’s boyish enthusiasm made Julie nervous. He might commit them to Pollard before they knew enough to be sure that it was wise to take the case. She also didn’t like him sitting on her desk. It just didn’t seem businesslike. She felt that it gave the prospective client an impression of amateurism.

  From the sofa, Clint said, “Should I start the tape?”

  “Definitely,” Bobby said.

  Clint was holding a compact, battery-powered tape recorder. He flicked the switch and set the recorder on the coffee table in front of the sofa, with the built-in microphone aimed at Pollard, Julie, and Bobby.

  The slightly chubby, round-faced man looked up at them. The rings of bluish skin around his eyes, the watery redness of the eyes themselves, and the paleness of his lips belied any image of robust health to which his ruddy cheeks might have lent credence. A hesitant smile flickered across his mouth. He met Julie’s eyes for no more than a second, looked down at his hands again. He seemed frightened, beaten, altogether pitiable. In spite of herself she felt a pang of sympathy for him.

  As Pollard began to speak, Julie sighed and slumped back in her chair. Two minutes later, she was leaning forward again, listening intently to Pollard’s soft voice. She did not want to be fascinated, but she was. Even phlegmatic Clint Karaghiosis, hearing the story for the second time, was obviously captivated by it.

  If Pollard was not a liar or a raving lunatic—and most likely he was both—then he was caught up in events of an almost supernatural nature. Julie did not believe in the supernatural. She tried to remain skeptical, but Pollard’s demeanor and evident conviction persuaded her against her will.

  Bobby began making holy-jeez-gosh-wow sounds and slapping the desk in astonishment at the revelation of each new twist in the tale. When the client—No. Pollard. Not “the client.” He wasn’t their client yet. Pollard. When Pollard told them about waking in a motel room Thursday afternoon, with blood on his hands, Bobby blurted, “We’ll take the case!”

  “Bobby, wait,” Julie said. “We haven’t heard everything Mr. Pollard came here to tell us. We shouldn’t—”

  “Yeah, Frank,” Bobby said, “what the hell happened then?”

  Julie said, “What I mean is, we have to hear his whole story before we can possibly know whether or not we can help him.”

  “Oh, we can help him, all right,” Bobby said. “We—”

  “Bobby,” she said firmly, “could I see you alone for a moment?” She got up, crossed the office, opened the door to the adjoining bathroom, and turned on the light in there.

  Bobby said, “Be right back, Frank.” He followed Julie into the bathroom, closing the door behind them.

  She switched on the ceiling exhaust fan to help muffle their voices, and spoke in a whisper. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Well, I have flat feet, no arches at all, and I’ve got that ugly mole in the middle of my back.”

  “You’re impossible.”

  “Flat feet and a mole are too many faults for you to handle? You’re a hard woman.”

  The room was small. They were standing between the sink and the toilet, almost nose to nose. He kissed her forehead.

  “Bobby, for God’s sake, you just told Pollard we’ll take his case. Maybe we won’t.”

  “Why wouldn’t we? It’s fascinating. ”

  “For one thing, he sounds like a nut.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “He says some strange power caused that car to disintegrate, blew out streetlights. Strange flute music, mysterious blue lights ... This guy’s been reading the National Enquirer too long.”

  “But that’s just it. A true nut would already be able to explain what happened to him. He’d claim he’d met God or Martians. This guy is baffled, looking for answers. That strikes me as a sane response.”

  “Besides, we’re in business, Bobby. Business. Not for fun. For money. We’re not a couple of damned hobbyists.”

  “He’s got money. You saw it.”

  “What if it’s hot money?”

  “Frank’s no thief.”

  “You know him less than an hour and you’re sure he’s no thief? You’re so trusting, Bobby.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment. How can you do the kind of work you do, and be so trusting?”

  He grinned. “I trusted you, and that turned out okay.”

  She refused to be charmed. “He says he doesn’t know where he got the money, and just for the sake of the argument, let’s say we buy that part of the story. And let’s also say you’re right about him not being a thief. So maybe he’s a drug dealer. Or something else. There’s a thousand ways it could be hot money without being stolen. And if we find out that it’s hot, we can’t keep what he pays us. We’ll have to turn it over to the cops. We’ll have wasted our time and energy. Besides ... it’s going to be messy.”

  “Why do you say that?” he asked.

  “Why do I say that? He just told you about waking up in a motel room with blood all over his hands!”

  “Keep your voice down. You might hurt his feelings.”

  “God forbid!”

  “Remember, there was no body. It must’ve been his own blood.”

  Frustrated, she said, “How do we know there was no body? Because he says there wasn’t? He might be such a nutcase that he wouldn’t even notice the body if he stepped in its steaming bowels and stumbled over its decapitated head.”

  “What a vivid image.”

  “Bobby, he says maybe he clawed at himself, but that’s not very damned likely. Probably some poor woman, some innocent girl, maybe even a child, a helpless schoolgirl, was attacked by that man, dragged into his car, raped and beaten and raped again, forced to perform every humiliating act a perverse mind could imagine, then driven to some lonely desert canyon, maybe tortured with needles and knives and God knows what, then clubbed to death, and pitched naked into a dry wash, where coyotes are even now chewing on the softer parts of her, with flies crawling in and out of her open mouth.”

  “Julie, you’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m the one with the overactive imagination.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to thump his skull hard enough to knock some sense into him, but she laughed instead and shook her head.

  He kissed her cheek, then reached for the doorknob.

  She put her hand on his. “Promise we won’t take the case until we’ve heard his whole story and have time to think about it.”

  “All right.”

  They returned to the office.

  Beyond the windows, the sky resemb
led a sheet of steel that had been scorched black in places, with a few scattered incrustations of mustard-yellow corrosion. Rain had not begun to fall, but the air seemed tense in expectation of it.

  The only lights in the room were two brass lamps on tables that flanked the sofa, and a silk-shaded brass floorlamp in one corner. The overhead fluorescents were not on, because Bobby hated the glare and believed that an office should be as cozily lighted as a den in a private home. Julie thought an office should look and feel like an office. But she humored Bobby and usually left the fluorescents off. Now as the oncoming storm darkened the day, she wanted to switch on the overheads and chase away the shadows that had begun to gather in those corners untouched by the amber glow of the lamps.

  Frank Pollard was still in his chair, staring at the framed posters of Donald Duck, Mickey Mouse, and Uncle Scrooge that adorned the walls. They were another burden under which Julie labored. She was a fan of Warner Brothers cartoons, because they had a harder edge than Disney’s creations, and she owned videotape collections of them, plus a couple of animation cels of Daffy Duck, but she kept that stuff at home. Bobby brought the Disney cartoon characters into the office because (he said) they relaxed him, made him feel good, and helped him think. No clients ever questioned their professional abilities merely because of the unconventional artwork on their walls, but she still worried about what they might think.

  She went behind her desk again, and again Bobby perched on it.

  After winking at Julie, Bobby said, “Frank, I was premature in accepting the case. We really can’t make that decision until we’ve heard your whole story.”

  “Sure,” Frank said, looking quickly at Bobby, at Julie, then down at his scratched hands, which were now clutching the open flight bag. “That’s perfectly understandable.”

  “Of course it is,” Julie said.

  Clint switched on the tape recorder again.

  Exchanging the flight bag on his lap for the one on the floor, Pollard said, “I should give you these.” He unzippered the second satchel and withdrew a plastic bag that contained a small portion of the handsful of black sand he’d been clutching when he had awakened after his brief sleep Thursday morning. He also withdrew the bloody shirt he had been wearing when he had arisen from his even shorter nap later that same day. “I saved them because ... well, they seemed like evidence. Clues. Maybe they’ll help you figure out what’s going on, what I’ve done.”

  Bobby accepted the shirt and the sand, examined them briefly, then put them on the desk beside him.

  Julie noted that the shirt had been thoroughly saturated with blood, not merely spotted. Now the dry brownish stains made the material stiff.

  “So you were in the motel Thursday afternoon,” Bobby prompted.

  Pollard nodded. “Nothing much happened that night. I went to a movie, couldn’t get interested in it. Drove around a while. I was tired, real tired, in spite of the nap, but I couldn’t sleep at all. I was afraid to sleep. Next morning I moved to another motel.”

  “When did you finally sleep again?” Julie asked.

  “The next evening.”

  “Friday evening that was?”

  “Yeah. I tried to stay awake with lots of coffee. Sat at the counter in the little restaurant attached to the motel, and drank coffee until I started to float off the stool. Stomach got so acidic, I had to stop. Went back to my room. Every time I started nodding off, I went out for a walk. But it was pointless. I couldn’t stay awake forever. I was coming apart at the seams. Had to get some rest. So I went to bed shortly past eight that evening, fell asleep instantly, and didn’t wake up until half past five in the morning.”

  “Saturday morning.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And everything was okay?” Bobby asked.

  “At least there was no blood. But there was something else.”

  They waited.

  Pollard licked his lips, nodded as if confirming to himself his willingness to continue. “See, I’d gone to bed in my boxer shorts ... but when I woke up I was fully clothed.”

  “So you were sleepwalking, and you dressed in your sleep,” Julie said.

  “But the clothes I was wearing weren’t any I’d seen before.”

  Julie blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “They weren’t the clothes I was wearing when I came to in that alleyway two nights before, and they weren’t the clothes I bought at the mall on Thursday morning.”

  “Whose clothes were they?” Bobby asked.

  “Oh, they must be mine,” Pollard said, “because they fit me too well to belong to anyone else. They fit perfectly. Even the shoes fit perfectly. I couldn’t have lifted that outfit from someone else and been lucky enough to have it all fit so well.”

  Bobby slipped off the desk and began to pace. “So what are you saying? That you left that motel in your underwear, went out to some store, bought clothes, and nobody objected to your immodesty or even questioned you about it?”

  Shaking his head, Pollard said, “I don’t know.”

  Clint Karaghiosis said, “He could’ve dressed in his room, while sleepwalking, then went out, bought other clothes, changed into them.”

  “But why would he do that?” Julie asked.

  Clint shrugged. “I’m just offering a possible explanation.”

  “Mr. Pollard,” Bobby said, “why would you have done something like that?”

  “I don’t know.” Pollard had used those three words so often that he was wearing them out; each time he repeated them, his voice seemed softer and fuzzier than before. “I don’t think I did. It doesn’t feel right—as an explanation, I mean. Besides, I didn’t fall asleep in the motel until after eight o’clock. I probably couldn’t have gotten up again, gone out, and bought the clothes before the stores closed.”

  “Some places are open until ten o’clock,” Clint said.

  “There was a narrow window of opportunity,” Bobby agreed.

  “I don’t think I would’ve broken into a store after hours,” Pollard said. “Or stolen the clothes. I don’t think I’m a thief.”

  “We know you’re not a thief,” Bobby said.

  “We don’t know any such thing,” Julie said sharply.

  Bobby and Clint looked at her, but Pollard continued to stare at his hands, too shy or confused to defend himself.

  She felt like a bully for having questioned his honesty. Which was nuts. They knew nothing about him. Hell, if he was telling the truth, he knew nothing about himself.

  Julie said, “Listen, whether he bought or stole the clothes is not the point here. I can’t accept either. At least not with our current scenario. It’s just too outrageous—the man going to a mall or K Mart or someplace in his underwear, outfitting himself, while he’s sleepwalking. Could he do all that and not wake up—and appear to be awake to other people? I don’t think so. I don’t know anything about sleepwalking, but if we research it, I don’t think we’ll find such a thing is possible.”

  “Of course, it wasn’t just the clothes,” Clint said.

  “No, not just the clothes,” Pollard said. “When I woke up, there was a large paper bag on the bed beside me, like one of those you get at a supermarket if you don’t want plastic. I looked inside, and it was full of ... money. More cash.”

  “How much?” Bobby asked.

  “I don’t know. A lot.”

  “You didn’t count it?”

  “It’s back at the motel where I’m staying now, the new place. I keep moving. I feel safer that way. Anyway, you can count it later if you want. I tried to count it, but I’ve lost my ability to do even simple arithmetic. Yeah, that sounds screwy, but it’s what happened. Couldn’t add the numbers. I keep trying but ... numbers just don’t mean much to me any more.” He lowered his head, put his face in his hands. “First I lost my memory. Now I’m losing essential skills, like math. I feel as if... as if I’m coming apart ... dissolving ... until there’s going to be none of me left, just a body, no mind at all ... gone.”

&
nbsp; “That won’t happen, Frank,” Bobby said. “We won’t let it. We’ll find out who you are and what all this means.”

  “Bobby,” Julie said warningly.

  “Hmmm?” He smiled obtusely.

  She got up from her desk and went into the bathroom.

  “Ah, Jeez.” Bobby followed her, closed the door, and turned on the fan. “Julie, we have to help the poor guy.”

  “The man is obviously experiencing psychotic fugues. He’s doing these things in a blacked-out condition. He gets up in the middle of the night, yeah, but he’s not sleepwalking. He’s awake, alert, but in a fugue state. He could steal, kill—and not remember any of it.”

  “Julie, I’ll bet you that was his own blood on his hands. He may be having blackouts, fugues, whatever you want to call them, but he’s not a killer. How much you want to bet?”

  “And you still say he’s not a thief? On a regular basis he wakes up with a bagful of money, doesn’t know where he got it, but he’s not a thief? You think maybe he counterfeits money during these amnesiac spells? No, I’m sure you think he’s too nice to be a counterfeiter.”

  “Listen,” he said, “we’ve got to go with gut feelings sometimes, and my gut feeling is that Frank is a good guy. Even Clint thinks he’s a good guy.”

  “Greeks are notoriously gregarious. They like everybody.”

  “You telling me Clint is your typical Greek social animal? Are we talking about the same Clint? Last name—Karaghiosis? Guy who looks as if he was cast from concrete, and smiles about as often as a cigar store Indian?”

  The light in the bathroom was too bright. It bounced off the mirror, white sink, white walls, and white ceramic tile. Thanks to the glare and Bobby’s good-natured if iron-willed determination to help Pollard, Julie was getting a headache.

  She closed her eyes. “Pollard’s pathetic,” she admitted.

  “Want to go back in there and hear him out?”

  “All right. But, dammit, don’t tell him we’ll help him until we’ve heard everything. All right?”

  They returned to the office.

  The sky no longer looked like cold, scorched metal. It was darker than before, and churning, molten. Though only the mildest breeze stirred at ground level, strong winds apparently were at work in higher altitudes, for dense black thunderheads were being harried inland from the sea.

  Like metal filings drawn to magnets, shadows had piled up in some corners. Julie reached for the switch to snap on the overhead fluorescents. Then she saw Bobby looking around with obvious pleasure at the softly lustrous, burnished brass surfaces of the lamps, at the way the polished oak end tables and coffee table glimmered in the fall of warm buttery light, and she left the switch unflicked.

  She sat behind her desk again. Bobby perched on the edge of it, legs dangling.

  Clint clicked on the tape recorder, and Julie said, “Frank ... Mr. Pollard, before you continue your story, I’d like you to answer a few important questions for me. In spite of the blood on your hands, and the scratches, you believe you’re incapable of hurting anyone?”

  “Yeah. Except maybe in self-defense.”

  “And you don’t think you’re a thief?”

  “No. I can’t ... I don’t see myself as a thief, no.”

  “Then why haven’t you gone to the police for help?”

  He was silent. He clutched the open flight bag on his lap and peered into it, as if Julie was speaking to him from its interior.

  She said, “Because if you really feel certain you’re an innocent man in all regards, the police are best equipped to help you find out who you are and who’s pursuing you. You know what I think? I think you’re not as certain of your innocence as you pretend. You know how to hot-wire a car, and although any man with reasonable knowledge of automobiles could perform that trick, it’s at least an indication of criminal experience. And then there’s the money, all that money, bagsful of it. You don’t remember committing any crimes, but in your heart you’re convinced you have, so you’re afraid to go to the cops.”