Midnight Voices

by John Saul

  Reaching for the Tabasco once more, he sprinkled a good dose onto the remaining few bites of now-cold enchilada, and turned back to his own notes on his interview with Dr. Humphries.

  An interview that, in the end, hadn’t given Frank Oberholzer much more than he’d had when he arrived. And when he’d arrived, all he’d really wanted to do was get out. Of course, he’d seen the building all his life, brooding over Central Park West like some overdressed old harridan, glowering at a world that had long since passed it by. Nor had he ever understood its reputation for exclusivity; indeed, he’d always wondered why anyone would want to live in it at all. As far as he’d ever been able to see, it just looked gloomy, and when he’d gone in that afternoon, there’d been nothing to change his impression. The lobby obviously hadn’t been remodeled since the building was built, and the doorman looked as if he was the original as well. The elevator had looked dangerous enough that Oberholzer had actually considered climbing up the stairs, but in the end the results of his diet of pastrami sandwiches and enchiladas had prevailed, and he’d ventured into the elevator.

  Dr. Theodore Humphries had been pretty much what Oberholzer had expected—not as old as the building, but far from young. Whitening hair that was starting to thin, and a suit almost as old-fashioned as the building he lived in. When Oberholzer had announced the reason for his visit, Humphries had nodded, his lips curving into a thin half-smile. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, given that I presume I am what you call ‘the last person to see her alive,’ and that my conversation with Miss Costanza wasn’t what anyone could call productive. In fact, it wasn’t particularly pleasant at all.”

  He’d given an account of his meeting with Andrea Costanza that matched Nathan Rosenberg’s nearly perfectly. “I’m both an osteopath and a homeopath,” he sighed as he finished, “which I’m very much aware makes me a quack in some people’s minds. I don’t happen to agree with them, and since I have a license to practice medicine in the State of New York, I assume the state doesn’t either.”

  Oberholzer had asked a few more questions, all of which Dr. Humphries had patiently answered, and when he’d asked the doctor if he had any objections to him talking to the patient involved, Humphries had shrugged. “It’s really not up to me, is it? I should think you’d have to talk to the Albions, up on the seventh floor—they’re her foster parents.”

  Oberholzer had trudged up to the seventh floor, where he’d gotten no response when he knocked at the Albions’ door and rang their bell, then made a note to follow up on the girl tomorrow. Not that he thought either the girl or her foster parents would be able to shed any light on what might have happened to Costanza, since Oberholzer’s gut—now burning not only with the enchilada and Tabasco sauce he’d already inflicted on it, but with a couple of jalapeño peppers as well—was still telling him there was a boyfriend of some kind involved. Depressing as The Rockwell was and despite Oberholzer’s own reservations about the kind of medicine Humphries practiced, right now he’d be willing to bet his badge that the aging doctor hadn’t been the one to creep down Costanza’s fire escape in the dark, reach through her window, and break her neck. Aside from the fact that he didn’t look strong enough to have kept even a surprised victim from breaking free, his recounting of his interview with the victim added up. As far as Oberholzer knew, Costanza had been pushing her authority in demanding to see the Mayhew kid’s medical records, and Humphries had not only been within his legal rights, but might have exposed himself to a lawsuit if he’d opened the files to the social worker. Unless there was a lot more going on than he thought there was, Humphries wasn’t his man.

  Belching loudly as the jalapeños did battle with the acid in his belly, he went back to Hernandez’s report, and the copy of Costanza’s address book she’d made for him, the request for which had earned him one of the poisonous glares she thought he didn’t know about, but that were visible enough in the reflective glass of the wire-reinforced window in the squad room door that he could see them as clearly as if he were facing her.

  She’d glared, but she’d done as he asked, which would get her good marks on her first review. By then, he hoped, she’d have worked up enough trust in him to glare directly at him instead of waiting until she thought he couldn’t see.

  Picking up his phone, he jabbed in the digits for the number listed for a Beverly Amondson, one of the people Hernandez had been unable to contact that afternoon. There were three of them, and Amondson’s name—along with Rochelle Newman’s—sounded vaguely familiar to Oberholzer, though he couldn’t quite place it. Beverly Amondson answered on the second ring, and she sounded genuinely upset that Costanza was dead. “I couldn’t believe it when I heard yesterday,” she told him. “We’ve been friends since college and it’s just so hard to imagine anyone would want to kill her.” As to the possibility of a boyfriend, she’d agreed with Rosenberg and everyone Hernandez had talked to. “She hadn’t had a boyfriend in years. In fact, we were joking about it at lunch a few months ago.”

  A faint bell sounded in Oberholzer’s mind, and then he remembered. Reaching for the copy of Costanza’s Day-Timer that had gotten him yet another glare from Hernandez, he flipped through it quickly until he found the page from last spring with the lunch date notation. “Would that be the one at Cipriani’s?”

  “How did you know that?” Bev Amondson asked, then answered her own question. “Never mind: the Day-Timer, right? Andrea wrote down everything. I bet she even had all our names, didn’t she?”

  “Only initials. B being you, I assume, along with R and C.”

  “That would be Rochelle and Caroline,” Bev supplied.

  “Last names?” Oberholzer asked, but as both names were on the list Hernandez had given him of people she hadn’t been able to reach, he was pretty sure he already knew.

  “Newman and Fleming,” Bev told him, confirming what he already suspected.

  Another bell rang in Oberholzer’s memory, and he flipped through the calendar again. “Is Caroline Fleming the same Caroline who got married last month?”

  “The very one. To the most fabulous man. We all adore Tony. And after what happened, we’re all so happy for Caroline.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not following.” Oberholzer repeated. “Something happened to Caroline Fleming?”

  There was an instant’s silence, then: “Her husband. Not Tony—her first one. He—” Bev Amondson hesitated a moment more, then finished. “He got killed in Central Park last year. One of those stupid things—he went running after dark and a mugger. . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment, then picked up again. “Well, I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?”

  Now the bell in Oberholzer’s mind was ringing loud and clear. “Was Caroline Fleming’s husband’s name Brad? Brad Evans?”

  “Good Lord,” Beverly Amondson breathed. “How did you know that?”

  “I’m a homicide cop,” Oberholzer replied. “It’s my business to know.”

  After he’d hung up the phone a moment later, he went back to the report Maria Hernandez had made on her progress with the phone book. Next to Caroline’s name was a notation: Sick—will follow up tomorrow.

  “Sorry, Detective Hernandez,” Frank Oberholzer said out loud to his empty kitchen. “I think I’ll take this one myself.”

  CHAPTER 31

  When the dream began, Laurie knew she wasn’t asleep. but she had to be asleep, because if she wasn’t asleep, how could she be dreaming? But if she was asleep, how could she remember the day? And she remembered all of it, remembered getting up early and feeling much better than she had the day before; good enough to go to school.

  Remembered getting dressed and going down to the kitchen where Tony had breakfast all ready. There’d been fresh scones—ones Miss Delamond had made—and they’d been so good she’d eaten two of them, even though she knew she shouldn’t. But it hadn’t really been her fault, since Tony had kept telling her to have another, even splitting it apart and buttering
it, then putting it under the broiler and toasting it until it was so golden brown and smelled so good that she just couldn’t resist it.

  She remembered going to school, too. Meeting up with Amber Blaisdell just before lunch, then sitting with her at lunch, displacing Caitlin Murphy to the chair at the far end of the table where Laurie herself had found herself stuck on the first day.

  After school she’d come home to find her mother sick in bed, and felt like it must have been her fault, even though her mother had told her it wasn’t.

  She’d had dinner with Tony and Ryan—who seemed like he was even madder than usual—and then she’d done her homework, gone to bed, read for awhile, and finally turned off the light as she heard the big clock downstairs striking ten.

  So she was still awake—she was sure of it.

  But there was a funny smell in the room, and she didn’t feel right—her body felt all heavy, like it did in one of those dreams where something’s chasing you, and you have to run, but your feet feel like they’re mired in thick mud and no matter how hard you try, you can barely move at all.

  She heard the clock striking again and counted the soft chimes as they rang twelve times.

  Then the voices began, the voices whispering from behind the wall, as if there were people in the empty room next door.

  She tried to sit up, but couldn’t. It was as if her whole body was being held down by some invisible weight.

  She opened her mouth, wanting to cry out, but her mouth felt as if it were filled with feathers.

  The voices grew louder, and then she felt more than saw a flicker of movement next to the bed. She tried to turn her head, straining to see through the murky darkness that was unbroken save for a dim ray of light that had found a small gap in the blinds.

  A shape, darker even than the room, loomed above her.

  A moment later, there was another.

  Laurie’s heart began to race, and another cry welled up in her throat, but again it was as if she was trapped in a dream, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t give voice to the terror building inside her.

  Now the whispering voices surrounded her like sylphs drifting in the darkness.

  “. . . young . . .”

  “. . . so luscious . . .”

  “. . . soft . . .”

  “. . . tender . . .”

  Something touched her—an unseen finger pressing gently against the flesh of her thigh.

  Another, prodding at her stomach.

  A pinch on her upper arm, not quite strong enough to hurt.

  The voices again: “. . . yes, she’s perfect now. Perfect . . .”

  More fingers, wriggling beneath her back like worms writhing under her. The fingers followed by hands.

  How many hands?

  She didn’t know.

  The shadowed figures were on both sides of her now, leaning over her. Then she felt herself being lifted up, raised from her bed and transported through the darkness.

  Something hard beneath her.

  Motion now, and then a slight jar, followed by a new sound.

  Wheels rolling across the oaken floor.

  Into deeper darkness, where the whispered voices took on a hollow sound, and faint echoes seemed to play in her ears.

  Then there was light, and for the first time she could see the figures around her.

  Faces smiling at her—faces she recognized.

  Melanie Shackleforth, her fingers gently brushing a lock of hair from Laurie’s forehead.

  Helena Kensington, peering down at her, her withered hands clasped before her breast, her eyes—bright, vibrant eyes the exact same shade of blue as Rebecca Mayhew’s, fixed on Laurie’s own.

  “So pretty,” Helena whispered. “Even prettier than I thought when all I could do was touch her face.” She leaned closer, and one of her fingers traced the line of Laurie’s jaw. “Do you remember dear? Do you remember how I touched you?”

  Laurie’s skin crawled, and she wanted to pull away, but now nothing—not her arms or legs, or even her head—would obey her will.

  Then Irene Delamond was there, leaning so close that Laurie couldn’t turn away from her fetid breath. “Would you like another scone, dear? It’ll be good for you . . . as good as you’ll be for me.”

  Though she tried to clench her teeth, the old woman pressed a doughy mass into her mouth.

  “Wash it down, dearie,” another voice said, and now Lavinia Delamond was there, too, a glass of something in her hands. With one trembling hand the ancient woman lifted Laurie’s head while the swollen fingers of her other hand held the glass to her lips.

  Helpless to resist, Laurie let the fluid—so sweet it almost made her gag—trickle through her mouth and down her throat.

  “Good,” Lavinia crooned. “So good . . .”

  Laurie felt her throat begin to go numb.

  Then it began.

  One by one, a dozen or more tubes were inserted into Laurie. They went through every orifice of her body and where there were no orifices, needles punctured her skin and plunged deep inside her, piercing every organ, tapping every gland. Though she tried to turn away, to twist her neck and thrash her hips, there was no escape. Every tube led to some kind of pump, and to the other side of the pumps, other tubes were attached. At the ends of those tubes were more needles, and each of the needles was inserted into a vein or plunged directly into the body of one or another of the haggard old women around her.

  “Sleep,” a voice crooned from close by her ear. “Sleep the night away, and when morning comes all that will be left will be dreams.”

  As the tubes began to fill with liquid—some blood-red, others pale yellow, or brown, or a sickly green, or even so clear as to look like water, Laurie began to feel an exhaustion creep over her, but it was an exhaustion such as she’d never felt before. Her breath grew shallow, her heart began to pound, and her skin turned clammy with sweat. She could feel every muscle in her body weakening, her vision beginning to fade, and the sound around her turning muffled as if her ears were filled with cotton.

  A chill came over her, reaching deep into her until even her bones began to ache. As her vision faded further and what she was certain was the darkness of death began to close around her, she heard a new sound, faint at first, but then louder and louder.

  Sighs.

  Sighs of contentment, emanating from the time-ruined women into whom Laurie’s youth was flowing.

  Then, as the darkness enveloped her, the sighs faded away.

  Her mind drifting, Laurie surrendered to the cold and the dark and the silence.

  CHAPTER 32

  The line between dreams and reality had become so blurred for Caroline that when she opened her eyes in the darkness of the bedroom she wasn’t quite certain where she was. Was she caught up in the strange terrors of consciousness that had been building ever since the moment when she’d found the pictures of her children in her husband’s desk or was she lost in the panic of some terrible nightmare?

  For a moment—a moment that seemed to go on for eternity, she couldn’t be sure. But slowly—agonizingly slowly—her mind once more began to function, her memory to clear.

  The details of the day—or at least the details she could remember, flooded back to her.

  She’d known she should get out—known from the moment she’d awakened from the sleep induced by whatever drug it was that Dr. Humphries had given her. But she couldn’t—she’d felt too weak, too ill, to gather whatever she could pack for herself and Laurie and Ryan. Better to wait until tomorrow.

  Better to wait until Tony had left the apartment.

  Better to act as if nothing was wrong at all.

  Somehow she had gotten through the evening. Her ‘flu’ had helped—Tony had attributed her silence to her illness rather than the fear and suspicion that was its true cause. She’d retreated to her bed early, but not to sleep. There would be no sleep that night. Instead she would lie awake in the darkness, listening and watching, guarding her childr
en against whatever danger had crept into their lives.

  Listening to the man she’d married—the man she had loved only a few days earlier—sleep beside her.

  He had given her pills—tiny, white, powdery pills that looked exactly the same as the ones that Dr. Humphries had given her earlier—and she’d smiled gratefully, and thanked him, and pretended to wash them down with the glass of water he’d brought with him. But she hadn’t swallowed the pills at all—instead she’d palmed them, crushing them to dust in her right hand as she held the water glass in her left. As she sipped the water, she wiped away the dust of the medicine on the sheet of the bed. Returning the glass to Tony, she’d lain back against the pillows and prepared to watch and listen through the endless hours of the night.

  Instead, she’d slept.

  How had it happened? She’d slept most of the day, and when she’d gone to bed she’d been wide-awake, and though her eyes were closed her mind was racing and her ears were tracking every sound she heard.

  She’d listened to Tony come in, heard him cross the room, felt him bend over her, felt his lips brush her cheek.

  Heard him go on to the bathroom.

  Heard him coming to bed.

  Felt the bed sag slightly as he got in next to her.

  Heard his breathing fall into the long slow rhythms of sleep.

  Now she searched for that sound again, to reassure herself that he was still beside her, that he hadn’t slipped away into the darkness to—

  —to do what?

  She listened, and she heard nothing.

  The silence—and the emptiness she felt in the room—made her reach over and snap on the light.

  Tony’s side of the bed was empty.

  She got up, pulled on her robe, and went out into the hall.