Sandman

by Sean Costello

  “Maybe you were right,” Jack said. “Maybe it is better this way.”

  “I think so,” Nina said. “The police, the courts. I still can’t believe it.”

  She pulled away and slumped into the chair in Spears’s office, the same one she’d been sitting in an hour earlier when Chartrand and that cop came in to tell her they’d found evidence that her husband was the killer. She hunched forward, weeping—then sat bolt upright, a look of utter bewilderment on her face. “Oh, God, Jack,” she said, “the twins...how will I ever tell them their daddy’s gone? It’s going to break their little hearts...” She looked up at Jack. “Would you help me? Help me tell the boys? They think the world of you...”

  “Of course I will,” Jack said. He helped her to her feet. “Why don’t you go ahead home. I’ll come over later and talk to the boys.”

  “All right. And thank you, Jack. Thank you so much.”

  * * *

  Nina’s car was parked in the doctors’ lot, but there was no way she could drive herself home. She got a nurse to call her a cab. When the cab arrived she gave the driver her home address. She’d be safe there now and she longed to be home, among things familiar and loved. When she got in she would call Claudia and have her drop the boys off tonight. It was late, but she wanted them home. Jack would be coming over later to help her tell them about their dad. It seemed an impossible task.

  When they got to the house Nina handed the driver a twenty and told him to keep the change. As she made her way up the walk, she failed to notice the car parked in the deep shadow of the carport.

  She found the front door unlocked. This induced a twitch of alarm, but then she remembered giving a key to the detective. He must have forgotten to lock up after completing his search. She was inside only a few seconds, however, when she realized she was not alone in the house.

  “Hi, Nina,” a familiar voice said. “I’ve been waiting for you. Where are the boys?”

  Mom?” Nina said, startled. She’d have been no more astonished to find Elvis standing there in the hallway, risen from the dead. “How did you...?”

  Her mother’s eyes were shiny with tears. Another surprise.

  “I heard about it on the news. The police were here when I arrived and they let me in. What bulls those men were. Just look at the mess they left.” The tiny, wrinkled woman sighed. Looking at her now, after all these years, Nina wondered how she could have feared her so much. “Thank God your poor father’s in his grave. He always thought so much of Will.”

  You put him there, Nina felt like shrieking. You put him there with your boozing and your endless bitching and berating.

  Instead, she pressed herself into her mother’s waiting arms. “Oh, Mom, I killed him...I killed my own husband...”

  “Shhh, honey. Shhh.... You did what you had to do.”

  The old woman held her until the tears subsided, then led her to the kitchen and put on some tea.

  “Where are the boys?” she said again.

  “With Claudia,” Nina said.

  “Will they be all right there until morning?”

  “I want them with me tonight. I need them with me.”

  “Of course, sweetheart. I understand.” She glanced around the disordered house. Then, eyes averted, she said: “I’d like the three of you to come stay with me. Just for the first little while.”

  “No,” Nina said, a years-old defensiveness slamming down like the gates of a castle long accustomed to siege. Then her eyes scanned the room and she realized how foolish she’d been in thinking she could stay in this house.

  “Okay, Mom. But just for a day or two. Claudia already said she’d make room for us until I decide what to do.” She started down the hall, feeling a baseless urgency now. “Just let me grab a few things.”

  “Good. While you’re doing that, I’ll call Claudia and tell her to get the boys ready.”

  * * *

  Jack turned onto the Armstrongs’ street at twenty after eleven. During the drive over he’d been imagining how he’d handle this, the possibilities drifting through his mind in a vivid, languorous procession. The only constant was the boys. The boys would have to watch.

  He parked on the street, strode up the path to the door and rang the buzzer.

  * * *

  Three miles away, Nina leaned back in her mother’s old Ford wagon and closed her eyes. She’d decided not to tell the boys about their father tonight. It was late and they’d be tired. She’d find some way to do it in the morning. Her only regret was that she hadn’t thought to leave a note for Jack. Oh well, he’d understand.

  For her part, Anne Rider was glad to have her family with her again. It had been too many years. It was a shame it had taken a tragedy to bring them back together, but Anne had learned a lot about herself in her years as a bitter—but sober—widow. Much of the hate had leaked out of her. She was going to be a good mother again. She would protect her daughter and her grandchildren, whom she hadn’t seen since their christenings. She would stand by them through this crisis. And God help anyone who got in her way.

  The Ford rattled up the Queensway on-ramp and headed west, toward the old woman’s home in Mechanicsville.

  * * *

  Jack could have let himself in, but the house was empty. He could feel it. No matter. He’d deal with them later. For now he would have to content himself with the hospital. The thought made him grin.

  There was always something to do at the hospital.

  19

  AROUND MID AFTERNOON ON FRIDAY a code blue was called in the ICU. Paul Daw was nearby and decided to respond. The closure of the ORs had thinned out the available staff and Paul got a nod of appreciation from the charge nurse as he headed for the action around bed 3.

  The patient was an eighteen-year-old girl who’d been struck on her mountain bike by a speeding motorist, sustaining serious head and chest injuries. From the look of things the kid was in dire straits. Her cardiac rhythm was chaotic, and despite vigorous ventilation her color remained dusky, an ominous sign.

  Jack was there, directing the resuscitation. Paul entered the cubicle and stood next to him, awaiting instruction. Surprising Paul, Jack slung an arm around his shoulders and gave him a smile. It was a warm gesture, as inappropriate in this critical surrounding as it was unexpected, and Paul felt his face redden.

  Leaning closer, Jack whispered, “Just like old times, eh, chum?”

  Understanding struck Paul like a rabbit punch. He tried to pull away, but Jack squeezed the cord of muscle at the base of his neck, effecting a paralyzing straight-jacket of pain.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  Then the pain was gone and Jack was moving away, giving orders to the respiratory tech.

  Badly shaken, Paul left the unit, tentatively at first, then more urgently. By the time he reached the exit he was running.

  He left the building by a seldom-used door, flinching at every sound, wondering where he could possibly hide with his knowledge.

  * * *

  Paul went home. He didn’t know what else to do. He fixed himself a stiff drink, stripped off his clothes and eased into a hot bath, his heart still pounding in his chest.

  There was no longer any doubt in his mind that Jack was the Med Center killer. The man had practically admitted it to him at the dying girl’s bedside...which meant he’d killed Will Armstrong, too. Set him up and then killed him. At some unconscious level Paul had known it all along, but his fear of Jack had rendered him blind.

  His first instinct was to go to the police, but even if he did, he couldn’t prove anything.

  And if Jack ever found out...

  No, spilling his guts was not an option. Besides, everyone was happy now. They had their killer in Will.

  Clearly Jack was insane. He’d probably been doing this for years. Playing God. His choice of victims spurred by little more than the random alignment of whim and opportunity. And this recent escalation in the body count—coincident with Jenny’s loss of the baby, Pau
l realized—suggested he was approaching the breaking point.

  But for Paul, nothing had changed in the fifteen years since that night in the old man’s cubicle. He hadn’t told on Jack then, and there was no way he was going to involve himself now. It wasn’t up to him. He’d tell Jack that and Jack would believe him.

  If he doesn’t just kill me.

  And now, lying in the tub with the water beginning to chill, that possibility seemed the more likely. It seemed downright certain.

  Paul sat up quickly, galvanized, the faint creaks and hums of the house amplified and somehow alive now. Was that a footstep? Somebody in the house? Jack?

  He scrambled out of the tub and reached for his housecoat, almost falling on the wet tiles. Fuck. He pulled the housecoat on and ran down the hall to his bedroom, his mind racing ahead of him: Get dressed, throw a fresh change of clothes in an overnight bag, call Mother and tell her you’re going on a holiday and...

  And what?

  Breathing hard, Paul sat on the edge of the bed and propped his head in his hands. He was trembling like a child, tears burning in his eyes.

  Where would he go? He couldn’t leave. He had his practice, his mother to look out for, and...

  Jack would never hurt me.

  The thought calmed him. He was no danger to Jack and in the way of all powerful men, Jack would know that. They would talk and everything would be fine.

  And maybe, just maybe, Jack would come to him when he decided it was time to stop. Maybe that was what he wanted to talk about. Maybe, finally, they could connect on a meaningful level.

  Paul put his clothes on and went downstairs, frightened and confused, at odds with himself. One minute the urge to flee was on him, almost overpowering in its force; the next he was numb, submissive, ready to throw himself on Jack’s mercy.

  Desperate for distraction, he sat at his baby grand and tried to form a few chords, but his fingers fumbled over the keys.

  He switched on the digital cassette player he did his recording on. Following a brief pause, an original ballad he’d been working on drifted out of the speakers. He closed his eyes and let the sweet sounds ease his shattered nerves.

  The unfinished melody rolled smoothly along...and here was the sticking point. The problem was subtle, and it surprised Paul when suddenly, through all of his apprehension and fear, the elusive phrases assembled themselves in his mind.

  Not wanting to lose it, he reached up with his left hand to punch the RECORD button, his right, steady now, already forming the first mellow chord.

  Yes, he had it. Perfect...

  “You think you know so much.”

  Jack’s voice.

  “But you don’t know anything.”

  Paul spun on the bench seat and saw Jack standing by the mantle. He felt urine squirt into his briefs, a brisk orgasm of terror, hot against his thigh.

  “Shit, Jack, you scared me. How long have you been...?”

  “Long enough,” Jack said.

  “Jack, I didn’t, I would never...”

  “I know,” Jack said. He came over to the piano and took Paul’s hand, holding it gently, almost lovingly. “What to do? That’s the quandary here, old friend. What to do?”

  A clammy sweat filmed Paul’s body. He wanted to stand, but feared his legs would fail him. He knew he was about to die.

  Why didn’t I call the cops?

  As if privy to his thoughts, Jack said, “You can’t prove anything, that’s the rub. Nobody can. I helped them hang it on Will, let them get their tit out of the wringer for a while. But what if...accidents start happening again?” He grinned. “It’s perfect, don’t you see?” Just as quickly the grin vanished. “And I can’t have you fucking it up.”

  Paul hung his head. Helpless tears streamed from his eyes.

  Jack stroked his hand. “Now, now. No need for that. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit to a certain affection for you, Paul. I’ve always been impressed by your devotion. All these years, craving something you knew you could never have.” He chuckled, stroking Paul’s hand. “You’re like a teenage girl. Your life dominated by fear and desire. The irony is that what you most fear is also what you most desire. Are you one of those girls, Paul? Attracted to danger?”

  Paul looked up at him with red eyes. He had no idea what to say.

  Jack said, “One thing puzzles me, though. The women. Why do you bother?”

  “My mother,” Paul said.

  Jack nodded. “No grandkids for ole Missus Daw.”

  “Please, Jack, I...”

  “Don’t worry, chum. I cherish your devotion. You’d never do anything to hurt me...am I right?”

  “Totally, Jack. Absolutely.”

  “You’d never kill my baby.” His grip on Paul’s hand tightened now, the soothing timbre of his voice growing cold. “Love’s a strange thing, isn’t it? A lover can bring such pleasure.

  “And such pain.”

  Jack’s free hand blurred and Paul felt his arm wrenched to its full length, the force of the action almost pulling him off the bench seat. He saw Jack strike the piano’s lid prop, then his own hand was in the path of the falling lid and bright pain flared up his arm from his fingers.

  “Such pain,” Jack said, and slammed the lid down again.

  Paul screamed and the lid came down again, the piano clanging discordantly.

  Paul fainted, his body sagging to the plush carpet.

  * * *

  Some gray period later, pain snapped Paul awake. Disoriented, he scrambled to his feet, leaning against the expensive Steinway until a swell of dizziness passed.

  Then a thought of such horror seized him he actually cried out. That thought was simply: Jack...

  He swung around to face the empty room and stumbled into the main hall, his throbbing hand cradled against his chest. He lurched toward the front entrance, intending to flee into the street...but the door was standing ajar.

  Jack was gone.

  Paul closed the door without bothering to lock it and slunk back to the music room. He sat on the bench seat and examined his hand. It was already swollen, the fingers obviously broken, and that swooning feeling curled through him again, making his eyes water.

  Behind him something clicked. This was followed by a low whirring and Paul turned toward the familiar sound.

  It was the tape. The tape had come to the end of its loop and begun to rewind. Paul wiped the tears from his face and waited, watching the fat loop feed the thinner. Then he pushed PLAY.

  “—like a teenage girl—”

  Barely able to breathe, Paul rewound the tape a little further and hit PLAY again.

  “—can’t prove anything, that’s the rub. Nobody can. I helped them hang it on Will—”

  Paul hit STOP, a tight, humorless grin on his face.

  Got you now, you bastard. Got you now.

  He popped out the cassette, strode to the nearest phone and dialed the Ottawa Police. When the operator picked up, Paul asked for Detective Fransen. A moment later a gruff voice said, “Fransen,” and Paul cut the connection. He placed the tape beside the phone and walked away, feeling nothing now. Feeling empty.

  Jack’s voice in his head stopped him at the bathroom door.

  You wouldn’t kill my baby.

  Paul thought, Jenny, and every shred of decency he possessed bade him call and warn her. At least do that.

  But he could not.

  He wept for a while, leaning there in the bathroom doorway. Wept in fear and shame. Wept for the vast emptiness inside him.

  Then he splashed cold water on his face and dried himself with a downy towel, avoiding his reflection in the mirror.

  In the medicine cabinet he found a bottle of Percocets. He swallowed two of them and got his car keys. His fingers needed tending.

  * * *

  Late that afternoon, Jenny gave her phone number to Kim’s ICU nurse and asked her to call immediately should Kim’s condition change. Then she rode the elevator to the main lobby. Beneath the cement port
ico outside she climbed into a waiting cab and gave the driver her home address.

  She’d been awake for the past forty-two hours. She was sore and exhausted, but she couldn’t even begin to think about sleeping. She was suspended in a most unforgiving limbo of guilt, fear and apprehension.

  But through it all, one thing was crystal clear. Her life with Jack was over. She was going to go home, pack a few things, get her cat and her car and move out.

  20

  JENNY’S CAB PULLED INTO THE driveway at dusk. Jack’s car wasn’t there and the relief Jenny felt bordered on joy. She paid the driver and hurried inside.

  Peach met her at the door. The poor thing was starved and almost tripped her trying to tell her its dishes were empty.

  “You’ll have to wait a bit,” Jenny said, scooping the animal into her arms. “We’re going for a little ride.”

  She carried the cat to the pantry, dug out its plastic traveling cage and tucked the big tabby inside. Peach hated the cage—being stuck inside usually meant an unpleasant trip to the vet—and she’d almost squeezed out before Jenny got the door latched.

  “It’s only for a little while,” she said, thinking, God, my voice sounds so dead in here. Has it always sounded like this? And why was her heart pounding?

  It was the house, Jenny realized. It seemed alien to her now, the atmosphere too thin, and Jenny felt a rising urgency, a sense that she had to get out as quickly as possible.

  Breathing hard, she set the cage by the garage exit and ran upstairs to the bedroom. There was a small black suitcase in the walk-in closet and she crammed it full of slacks and blouses, panties and bras. Pantyhose she could buy. What else?

  Something to drink. She was parched.

  She lugged the suitcase downstairs, set it next to Peach’s cage and went to the kitchen. The green “message” light was flashing on the answering machine and Jenny hit PLAY, thinking it must be about Kim, fearing the worst.

  But it was Richard, his voice hesitant as he groped for words.

  “Jen, hi, it’s Richard. I suppose I shouldn’t be calling you at home, but I ran into your aunt Bunnie today—she remembered me from high school—and she told me about your daughter. I went to the hospital, but they were only allowing family in to visit. I just wanted to tell you, if you need anything, if you need a friend...please, don’t hesitate to call.”