Head Wounds

by Dennis Palumbo

  He burst into a loud, shrill laugh, then vanished from the screen. Leaving me to stare at a small rectangle of gray.

  Like a dam breaking, an intolerable rage flowed over me. I cried out in frustration and started pounding the steering wheel with my fist, ignoring the pain from my fight in the gym shooting up my arm, radiating across my bruised ribs.

  Harvey Blalock was dead. A friend of mine killed simply for the crime of being my friend.

  I finally quieted, gasping, my throbbing hand resting on the wheel. Harvey Blalock had always been so alive, so full of the juice of life. And now, suddenly, he was gone.

  How many more victims would Maddox claim? Friends of mine. Patients, past or present. Colleagues.

  I leaned back in the seat, feeling the blood leave my face. I kept picturing Harvey. His easy laugh. His wry, uncompromising intelligence. The respect he’d worked so hard to attain. The wife and children he’d left behind.

  For a fleeting moment, I couldn’t believe he was really dead. That what I’d seen had actually happened.

  But it had.

  Closing my eyes, filled with an aching despair, I prayed to the God I no longer believed in. For help. For solace.

  And got the answer I expected.

  l l l l l

  I was still parked at the curb on Second Avenue when Gloria called again.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend.” Her voice low, tentative. “I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through.”

  “I appreciate that, Gloria. What’s Barnes doing?”

  “Poring over his research on Maddox’s life. Collating all the salient material.”

  I nodded to myself. Knowing Lyle Barnes, I figured that the only way he knew how to deal with his own sense of helplessness was to keep busy. Keep working the problem.

  “Are you heading back home?” Gloria asked.

  “In a while. But let me know—”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  After we hung up, I sat for a few minutes, simply staring out my windshield. Then I opened the car door and stepped out under a cold, star-swept arch of sky. To my left, on the other side of Second Avenue, the Monongahela River flowed gently, ceaselessly, as it has since before the first settlers came.

  I crossed the street and stood at its bank, atop the slope of grass that met a set of timbers inlaid in the soil. Tar-spackled and weathered by a half-century of rain and sun, the old black wood braced itself in terraced steps against the implacable push of the river.

  Across its width was the newly gentrified South Side, most of its lights dimmed, businesses closed for the night. Forty years ago, it was the site of Jones & Laughlin, a seventeen-mile-long stretch of steel mills whose smokestacks funneled coal dust and blast furnace exhaust into Pittsburgh’s leaden skies. Today it boasted trendy shops and restaurants, clubs catering to students from Pitt and CMU, and much cleaner air.

  Now, the Steel City almost seemed more defined by what was gone than by what had been. Progress, of a kind, no doubt.

  Hugging myself against the wind and the night’s chill, I watched the luminous eddies formed by moonlight in the sluggish waters. Breathed in the oily river smells. Heard the urgent cries of the night birds.

  These sights and sounds seemed to ground me. Anchor my mind against its desire to drift, to spin away, to embrace a futile denial. Instead, I tried to make sense of the sequence of events of the past days. How what started as an attempt to decipher the meaning hidden in the case notes of my wife’s death years ago had turned into a relentless cat-and-mouse game with her killer.

  As a therapist, I was quite familiar with the idea of the past invading the present. But in the case of Sebastian Maddox, it had taken on a tangible and horrific reality. And, as I’d believed was true for Lyle Barnes, I now realized that my only respite from the anguish of that reality was action.

  To do that, I’d have to get inside Maddox’s head, the way he’d gotten into mine. Before the number of deaths escalated.

  The guttural sound of an engine out on the water suddenly drew my attention. As the small cruiser approached, its blinding spotlight and illuminated Departmental insignia identified it as a Pittsburgh River Police boat.

  Pinned within a blazing white circle of light, I squinted at the man standing on the craft’s forward deck. I could just make out enough to register that he was squinting back.

  “Hey, buddy! Not for nothin’, but watcha doin’ there, eh?” Those flat Pittsburgh vowels. Third-generation, at least.

  “Just looking at the river, Officer.” My voice upraised against the motor’s idling roar.

  The boat’s pilot, invisible behind the cabin windows, cut the engine. Bobbing slightly, the cruiser floated closer to the shoreline. The surefooted officer swayed along with it.

  “Ya don’t hafta stand so close to look at the goddam river, mister.” As the boat drifted toward me, the cop’s face and body became more distinct. Both were full, fleshy. “That grass there is real slippy. Ya could fall right in, and ya don’t wanna do that. River’s cold as ice, night like tonight.”

  “Look, my name’s Daniel Rinaldi, and I—”

  “Never heard o’ ya.”

  “I mean, I work with the—”

  “Hell, I don’t care what your story is. I just want your ass back up on the road and away from my river. Got it?”

  “Got it, Officer.”

  I turned and worked my way carefully up from the mound of grass and onto the berm of the road. As if asserting its authority, the cruiser emitted a couple of short horn blasts.

  Offering a quick wave in return, I walked back across the street and got behind the wheel of my car. Strapping on my seat belt, I felt another spasm of pain from my ribs. And my hand still throbbed from when I’d pounded the steering wheel.

  There was no getting around it. Each one of my forty-plus years rebelled against the punishment I’d taken from that young punk in the ring. But, unlike the psychic pain dished out by Maddox, eating at my soul like battery acid, at least I could do something about the physical kind.

  Putting the car in gear, I headed back along Second, but didn’t turn onto the bridge. Instead, I drove downtown, straight to Pittsburgh Memorial, where there was a guy I knew…

  l l l l l

  His name was Marone, a doctor about ten years my senior who worked in the ER. A fellow Pitt grad I’d met some time ago at an alumni function, he had sunken cheeks and wounded, evasive eyes. I didn’t know much about him, other than he was twice-divorced.

  As I’d hoped, he was on duty, even at two in the morning. Pulling double shifts, he’d once explained, to cover the brutal alimony and child-support checks. Without asking any questions, he prescribed some pain meds, which I got filled at the all-night pharmacy next door. More surprisingly, he didn’t give me the standard lecture about my apparent inability to stay the hell out of harm’s way. Probably because the place was too busy. Or else, like a number of my other acquaintances, he’d given up on me long ago.

  It was nearing three a.m. when I finally got home. As expected, Lyle Barnes was on Gloria’s laptop at the kitchen table, empty mug beside him. The equally empty carafe in the coffeemaker on the counter testified to how much caffeine the ex-FBI man had consumed.

  I understood. For a person still struggling with night terrors, awake was always better.

  “I’ll have a pretty complete picture of our guy ready for you by morning.” Barnes barely looked up from the screen. “Meanwhile, you and Agent Reese oughtta get some sleep.”

  As if to emphasize his point, Gloria came down the hall from the bathroom, rubbing her eyes. Barefoot, in jeans and a Penguins tee-shirt, and with her hair pulled back in a ponytail, she looked much younger than her thirty years.

  When she saw me, her face softened.

  “I keep thinking about Harvey Blalock. It was so…”


  “I know. I’m still in shock. Harvey was a good guy. This’ll kill his family.” I shook my head.

  She and I just stood there, a few feet apart. Neither of us moving toward the other. As though frozen in sorrow. At a loss.

  Finally, head still buried in his work, Barnes spoke sharply. “For Christ’s sake, go ahead and hug each other or some damned thing. I’m not an idiot.”

  Gloria and I exchanged wan smiles, and then did as Lyle had suggested. It felt good having her in my arms again.

  At last, Barnes looked up from the laptop. The creases on his lined face seeming to have deepened.

  “I’m sorry about your friend, too, Doc. But at least he died quick. Instantly.”

  “It’s cold comfort.”

  “In this life, sometimes that’s the only comfort you get.”

  I said nothing. Just gave Gloria a quick squeeze, after which she drifted from my embrace. Both of us aware of Barnes’ steady, noncommittal gaze.

  He broke the silence with a feigned irritation in his voice. “Now will you two both get out of here so I can work in peace? I’ll let you know if—”

  He leveled a baleful look at my laptop, which he’d placed next to Gloria’s on the table. She and I joined him in gazing at its opened lid.

  Barnes cleared his throat. “That is, when he makes contact again. After what he did to Blalock, he might want to savor what he imagines Danny’s reaction to be. Let us sweat it out a little before calling again.”

  “That’s just it.” Gloria took a seat next to Barnes. “It could be hours, it could be days. Jesus, it’s the not knowing that makes me crazy. I’m not good at waiting for the next bad thing to happen. I’m better at facing it right now and doing something about it.”

  I nodded. “That’s what he’s counting on, Gloria. If he keeps us in the dark as to when and where he’ll strike next, it ratchets up our anxiety. Our sense of vulnerability. It’s like an inversion of what behavior psychologists call ‘intermittent reinforcement.’”

  “Which means what…?”

  “By staying silent for varying amounts of time, Maddox has gotten us hooked. We have to wait, but we don’t know for how long. Yet we have no choice. Because if we do miss his next message, we miss learning the identity of his next victim. As well as any chance to prevent the death.”

  A sullen silence fell over the three of us. Gloria slumped in her chair, while Barnes just keep tugging at his chin. Too wired to sit, I turned to the counter and reached for the coffee carafe before remembering that it was empty.

  Instead, I got a glass of water from the sink and tossed a couple of the prescription pain meds in my mouth. Maybe not the best idea when I was already so exhausted, and had three beers in me as well, but I realized Barnes had probably been right. Sleep might be just what my battered body—and mind—needed at the moment.

  The older man gave me a wry smile.

  “With any luck, those things’ll knock you out for a while. Meanwhile, I’ve still got biographical research on the tricky bastard I want to organize and collate.”

  I considered this. “Maybe you ought to finish that up back at your motel. You, too, Gloria. Time for both of you to get out of here. At least till morning. Which brings up something I’ve been thinking about.”

  Arms folded, I regarded them both carefully.

  “Listen, when it comes down to it, this is between Maddox and me. I mean, I really appreciate all you two have done to help, but I can’t ask you to…well…After all, you do have lives, and I’ve got no right to ask you to—”

  Barnes bristled. “Do me a favor, will ya, Doc? Shut the hell up and go to bed.”

  I turned and gave Gloria a quizzical look.

  “I agree with the old man,” she said. “I’m here for the duration.”

  I let out a long breath.

  “I…both of you…I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” Barnes said. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind a tasteful gift basket. But not till after we nail the crazy prick. Now scoot!”

  Five minutes later, I’d stripped and was buried under the covers. Gloria came into the bedroom moments later, stepped out of her own clothes, and curled up next to me.

  “I thought you were going back to your hotel,” I said.

  “I am. In a minute. Or five.”

  A long beat of silence.

  “Funny.” She stifled a yawn. “We barely know each other, really, and yet…well, here we are…”

  I nodded. “Here we are.”

  She took my hand and brought it around her body, cupping her breast. Holding it there.

  Despite my deep, lingering sorrow about Blalock, I felt the stirrings of arousal.

  “Damn thing has a mind of its own,” I said.

  “They usually do. But you’re not there, are you?”

  “Not really. I keep thinking about…everything. Especially Harvey. I’m sorry, but would you take a rain check?”

  She snuggled closer. “I was just going to ask you the same thing. I’m pretty beat, and…”

  Her nipple stiffened against my palm. Then, abruptly, we were kissing. Hungrily, urgently. My lips tracing a path from between her breasts down to her smooth, hard belly, and then lower. Taking my time until I heard her gasp, and felt her deep, convulsive shudder.

  I entered her then. Our bodies now welded together, finding a charged, undulating rhythm. The sudden, wordless lovemaking fueled by grief, the ache of loss.

  Finally, spent, we lay in each other’s arms. After a long moment, her sleepy eyes found mine.

  “You know, I’m starting to wonder what non-crisis sex with you would be like.”

  I smiled a reply, as she yawned again. Gloria said nothing more, and within a matter of seconds had dozed off.

  I knew I should have woken her, sent her on her way. Instead, I merely listened to the soothing cadence of her breathing, as the potent medication began to ease my aching muscles. Not long after that, it lulled me to sleep.

  Thankfully, even my psyche cooperated. If I was visited by nightmares, by a parade of horrific images spawned by the past days’ events, I didn’t remember them the next morning.

  Although, when I awoke, I was alone.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  When I padded into the kitchen, I found that Lyle Barnes had made a full carafe of coffee before leaving. As I poured myself a steaming mug, squinting at the light glazing the bay window above the sink, my burner cell in the front room rang.

  Coffee in hand, I went to answer it. Suddenly I was aware of how empty the house felt without the two of them. Shaking it off, I swallowed half the mug and picked up the cell.

  “Where are you?” said Gloria.

  “Home.” I took a seat on the sofa.

  “Listen, Barnes just called me from his motel room. Turn on the morning news. But stay on the phone.”

  I did as requested.

  As expected, the lead story was about the violent death of Harvey Blalock, described by the anchor as “the noted Pittsburgh attorney and community leader.” The reporter on-scene relayed what details were available about the tragedy in a somber voice as CSU techs, a platoon of cops, and various medical personnel trudged around behind her.

  In a far corner, cordoned off by crime scene tape, were the twisted remains of the victim’s Lexus. No doubt the station had been refused permission to show the security camera footage of the explosion itself, though that didn’t mean a pirated copy of the parking garage video wouldn’t find its way to the Internet.

  After a brief retelling of Blalock’s rise to prominence, accompanied by stock footage of Harvey at various civic functions and still photos of his wife and children, the anchor added that the police were currently questioning a Ms. Lily Chen. A new young lawyer recently hired by the firm, she was the object of speculat
ion concerning a possible affair with the deceased. When reached by the station, Chen, through her own attorney, refused to comment on “these spurious accusations.” Nor would the Blalock family, who, through a spokesman, asked for privacy during this difficult time.

  “Jesus,” I said into the phone. “Poor Harvey.”

  “It’ll be worse online.” Gloria clucked her tongue. “That’s where the gloves really come off. Where the trolls rule.”

  Just then, one of the other prepaid cells we’d left on the coffee table rang. It was Lyle Barnes. I put it on speaker.

  “You watching this, Doc?”

  “Yeah. And thanks for the coffee.”

  The TV station had cut to a live shot of the assistant chief, who described himself as a friend of the murdered man, and who reminded viewers and the press that the investigation into the bombing was in its early stages.

  “While we just sit here, unable to render assistance.” Barnes’ voice was weary with disgust. “Knowing what we know, knowing who the bastard is, but…”

  His words trailed off. Neither Gloria nor I said anything. Because there wasn’t anything to say.

  The station then ran a follow-up story about Robbie Palermo’s kidnapping, including the breaking news that the family’s stolen white van had been found. Some city workers had stumbled across it earlier this morning in a vast dump miles east of downtown. According to police sources, the vehicle had been torched, with gasoline the probable accelerant, eliminating the possibility of retrieving any useable evidence.

  “Maddox isn’t a fool,” Barnes said. “If any forensics had been found, the cops might have been able to ID the prick. He’s in the system.”

  “But what about the other white van?” I asked. “The one used in the Langley hit-and-run?”

  I scooped up the remote and clicked around to some other local stations, but found no mention of that crime.

  “Probably because there’s nothing to report.” Barnes grunted. “After a couple days, hit-and-runs kinda drop off the radar screen.”