The Sleepless

by Graham Masterton

  Michael went to the study door and opened it. Down below, the yard was empty and the street was deserted. Sand sizzled softly through the grass, and swirled across the sidewalk.

  ‘I suggest we go back to Boston and do some more digging,’ he said. ‘We can trust Thomas Boyle, can’t we?’

  ‘I guess so. As much as anybody.’

  ‘We need to talk to Thomas about the official police line on this business. Then we need to go back and talk to Dr Moorpath. We have to have him explain how on God’s earth he could have reported that the O’Brien party were killed accidentally. We need to talk to Edgar Bedford, at Plymouth, and ask him why he wants to put a lid on our investigation. We need to talk to Kevin Murray and Artur Rolbein. I’ve read their reports but I still have plenty of unanswered questions.’

  ‘You’re going to be stirring up a whole nest of hornets, if you ask me,’ said Victor.

  Michael nodded. ‘I know that. And I’m going to talk to Joe first. I want to know why he’s so frightened ... and just how frightened we ought to be.’

  ‘I think pretty damned frightened,’ said Victor.

  Patsy glanced at him anxiously. ‘You’re not going to go back to Boston now?’ she asked.

  Michael checked his watch and it was eleven minutes after three. ‘Not immediately. I have to discuss this with Joe first. I don’t want to leave him with his ass hanging out in the breeze.’

  Shortly after four o’clock, he phoned Joe at Plymouth Insurance. Joe’s assistant said that he hadn’t yet returned from New Seabury. It wasn’t much more than a two-hour drive, even if the traffic was snarled up, but maybe Joe had stopped for lunch, or maybe he had decided to go home first. Michael called Joe’s private number and Marcia answered; but Marcia hadn’t seen Joe, either.

  She gave him Joe’s mobile number and Michael tried that. A flat, nasal recorded voice told him that the mobile phone was out of service.

  Michael told Victor, ‘He’s not at the office yet, and he’s not home, and his mobile’s on the fritz.’

  ‘Give him another half-hour,’ Victor suggested.

  Michael called the office again at five, and then at five-thirty. He phoned one more time, at ten minutes to six, and this time the offices were closed and all he heard was the answering machine. ‘If you know the extension of the person you’re calling, you may press that number now ... ‘

  He pressed Joe’s extension and all he got was Joe’s desktop answering machine. ‘Hi, this is Joe Garboden ... I’m away from my desk right now ... ‘

  He held the receiver up so that Victor could hear the message, too. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said. ‘I just hope he hasn’t had an accident.’

  Victor shook his head. ‘I shouldn’t worry too much. He probably met somebody and got held up.’

  Michael called Kevin Murray, but Kevin Murray’s mother said he was away for the weekend in Maine. He called Artur Rolbein, and Artur agreed to meet him at 2 p.m. the following day. All the same, he sounded oddly guarded.

  ‘Is everything okay?’ Michael asked him.

  ‘Oh, for sure. It’s just that the word is, the O’Brien investigation is firmly closed.’

  ‘Have you seen Dr Moorpath’s report?’

  ‘I haven’t read it yet but it was mentioned on the four o’clock news.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  ‘I don’t think anything. The investigation’s closed. Accidental death, Plymouth coughs up.’

  ‘Do you believe that it was accidental death?’

  There was a lengthy silence. Then Artur Rolbein said, ‘I’m working on something else now.’

  ‘Artur ... I need your opinion on this.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you tomorrow,’ said Artur, and put the phone down so quickly that Michael didn’t even have time to say ‘Goodbye.’

  Victor swigged beer from the bottle and said, ‘What did I tell you? Tread very, very carefully indeed.’

  Twelve

  He kept on calling Joe every half hour until well after midnight. He called the Highway Patrol but the Highway Patrol had no reports of any accidents in Barnstable or Plymouth counties involving a metallic-blue Cadillac. A man and a woman had died on 495 just north-east of West Wareham in a head-on collision with a refrigerated Kenworth semi, but they had been travelling in a silver Lincoln. A Camaro had been found burned out on 151, but there was no sign of injury, and the Highway Patrol had assumed that somebody had torched a stolen or broken-down vehicle, either to hide the evidence or to claim the insurance. In the end, Michael decided to call it a night.

  Victor was already lying on the couch, covered in a pond-green woven blanket, his glasses folded on the floor beside him.

  ‘No luck?’ he said, as Michael put down the phone.

  ‘I don’t know where the hell he’s got to.’

  ‘Oh, come on ... we’ll find him tomorrow in Boston. What time do you want to leave?’

  ‘Early. I’m supposed to be seeing Dr Rice at quarter to ten, but I can cancel.’

  ‘Does that really help you, that hypnotherapy?’

  ‘I don’t know. Sometimes I think it makes me even more screwy than I was to start with. But other times ... well, it gives me the strength to do things that I might not have been able to do without it.’

  ‘We were talking about post-hypnotic suggestion this morning. Does Dr Rice give you any of that?’

  Michael gathered together the Kennedy photographs on his desk. ‘Only in pretty general terms. You know, like, “today you’re going to feel more positive.” ‘

  ‘And you do feel more positive?’

  ‘For sure, yes. Some days it works better than others, but it works.’

  ‘He doesn’t tell you to do anything specific – like start tapdancing in the middle of the street, or kiss every woman you see wearing a blue dress, or anything like that?’

  Michael smiled. ‘He’d better not try.’

  ‘He could actually do that, though?’

  ‘Oh, sure. Most people think that they could never be hypnotized, and that they would never respond to post-hypnotic suggestion. But it’s incredible what a good hypnotist can make people do. And all that stuff about people not doing anything that’s against their inner nature, or anything dangerous or life-threatening ... that’s all nonsense. A skilled modern hypnotist could induce you to jump off the John Hancock Tower, or to step in front of a bus, or whatever he wanted.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been thinking.’

  Michael turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about Frank Coward, the guy who was piloting the helicopter when the O’Brien family was killed.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Whatever progress we make with this investigation, we keep coming back to the helicopter crash. Okay – we accept that the O’Brien party were probably murdered, and we accept that Sissy O’Brien was abducted. But how was it done? How did the perpetrator know exactly where the helicopter was going to come down, unless Frank Coward brought it down there deliberately?’

  Michael said, ‘You think that Frank Coward could have crashed the helicopter under post-hypnotic suggestion?’

  ‘It’s a thought, that’s all. He wasn’t terminally ill. Thomas Boyle told me that the police have been through all of his bank accounts and all of his savings accounts and all of his recent expenditure, and there’s no evidence at all that he was bribed. He didn’t buy himself a new car or book a holiday to Acapulco or even treat his wife to a side-by-side icebox. Granted – he could have been prepared to commit suicide to kill the O’Brien party. Look at some of those Middle East terrorists who drive trucks of explosives into US Army installations. Look at the woman who killed Rajiv Gandhi. But – I don’t know, a suicide mission doesn’t really figure, does it? Not by an American pilot, to kill a Supreme Court justice. Doesn’t ring true.’

  Michael thought about it, and then he said, ‘Okay, that’s an interesting theory. Maybe I will keep that appointment with Dr Rice tomorrow mor
ning. I can ask him about it.’

  Victor lay back on the couch. He crossed himself.

  Michael was just about to switch off the light. ‘Do you always do that?’

  ‘It’s just a habit. My grandmother taught me to do it, when I was a kid. Keeps away the lily-white boys, that’s what she said.’

  ‘The lily-white boys? Who were the lily-white boys, when they were at home?’

  ‘I don’t really know. Some old Jewish folk-legend from Poland. They came at night and stole your soul, something like that. She would never really tell me. All the time she talked about them, she used to cross herself over and over.’

  Michael switched off the light. ‘Sleep well, then,’ he said. ‘And – uh, maybe I should cross myself too.’

  Marcia called him at six in the morning and told him in a trembling voice that Joe still hadn’t come home. She’d phoned all of his friends, she’d phoned the police and the Highway Patrol, she’d phoned the hospitals. There was no trace of him anywhere.

  ‘Maybe he got delayed for some reason, and decided to stop off at a hotel,’ Michael suggested, even though he didn’t believe it for a moment.

  ‘He would have called, Michael. He always calls.’

  ‘Well, I’ll be back in Boston round lunchtime. If he’s not back in the office by then, I’ll call round and see you.’

  ‘Oh dear God, I hope he’s all right,’ said Marcia. ‘He’s been under such a strain with this O’Brien case.’

  ‘Strain?’ asked Michael. He was quite surprised. ‘What kind of a strain?’

  ‘It seemed to worry him so much. It seemed to frighten him. A couple of weeks ago, he said that there were things going on that nobody knew about. A sort of secret society, that’s what he called it. He said that he’d noticed it years ago, and that he hadn’t really believed it to begin with, but now he had proof.’

  Michael thought of the Kennedy photographs. What on earth had Joe discovered? Maybe it was some kind of connection between the Kennedy assassination and the O’Brien killings? A mob connection, maybe, like Sam Giancana or Bugsy Siegel? Or a secret society of hired political hit-men? Whatever it was, ‘He didn’t say anything to me,’ he told Marcia.

  ‘I know,’ said Marcia. She paused, and he could hear the tears in her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, maybe he should. But he said he wasn’t going to tell anybody until he was completely sure. That’s why he didn’t want you on the case. He said you were bound to find out what was going on, and that you might blow the whistle before he had enough proof.’

  Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean, he didn’t want me on the case? He came down here and asked me specially. He literally begged me.’

  ‘He had to. Edgar Bedford wanted you, and Joe didn’t have any choice.’

  Michael was astounded. ‘Marcia, I simply can’t believe this. Joe actually didn’t want me to take over this investigation?’

  ‘He said it was far too dangerous. He said there was far too much to lose. He tried not to show it, but he was absolutely terrified. He used to lie awake at night, shaking. That’s why I’m worried now.’

  ‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Michael assured her, and put down the phone. He was still sitting at the kitchen table staring at it when Patsy came in, wearing nothing but a checkered shirt.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him. ‘Michael? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  After breakfast, Michael and Victor drove into Hyannis to keep Michael’s therapy appointment with Dr Rice. They had tried calling Joe yet again, but he hadn’t reached the office and his mobile phone was still dead. It was a hot, bright morning with scarcely any wind, and the streets of Hyannis looked to Michael as if he were seeing them in a highly-polished mirror.

  ‘Maybe he’s gone into hiding,’ said Victor, his head lolling back against the seat, his arm resting on the open car window.

  Michael parked in front of Dr Rice’s office. ‘I hope so. I’m really worried.’

  They walked into the reception area. Inside, it was gloomy and chilly after the heat of the street outside. A large potted cheese-plant dipped and shivered in the flow from the air-conditioner. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and the lights on her telephone switchboard were blinking with incoming calls. Her swivel chair was tilted away from the desk at a sharp angle, as if she had got up in a hurry, and her pocketbook was lying on its side on the carpet, with a comb and a lipstick and a set of keys half-spilled out of it.

  Michael looked around. ‘Strange,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe she took five to go to the bathroom,’ said Victor.

  ‘Unh-hunh. When girls go to the bathroom, they take their combs and their lipsticks with them.’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Victor, looking at him sharply. ‘You should have been an insurance investigator.’

  Michael approached the mahogany-veneered door which led to Dr Rice’s office. It was slightly ajar – only an inch or two, but all the same he knocked on it and called out, ‘Dr Rice? Dr Rice? It’s Michael Rearden. I came for my appointment.’

  He pushed the door open and it stuck. He pushed again, but there was something lying on the floor, something soft and heavy which prevented him from pushing it any further – like a mattress, or a –

  He pushed again, and saw a stockinged foot.

  A stockinged foot that lolled as he pushed against it, lifelessly.

  ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Victor.

  ‘There’s a body resting up against the door. A woman’s body. I can see her foot.’

  Victor peered around the door, and then stood back. ‘If the perpetrator left her up against the door, then he’s probably still in there. Either that, or he’s escaped out of the back.’

  Michael felt perspiration crawling down his back, inside of his shirt. ‘Maybe we should call the police.’

  ‘Aw, come on,’ Victor retorted. ‘We practically are the police. Leastways, I am.’

  Michael hesitated, and then he went back up to the door and called out, ‘Dr Rice? Are you there? It’s Michael Rearden!’

  They waited almost half a minute, but there was still no reply. At last, Victor said, ‘We don’t have any choice, do we? Let’s kick the bastard down.’

  They stood side by side in the reception area, holding on to each others’ shoulders to balance themselves. For the first time since he had worked with his father, caulking decks and varnishing transoms, Michael felt a strong sense of companionship: this was something that they were doing together, without discussion. Victor was skinny and Victor was wily. He wasn’t the kind of guy that Michael normally would have numbered as a friend. But there was something alarmingly direct about him. You knew he wouldn’t try to bullshit you, and you knew that if you ever had to call on him, he’d help you, without even thinking about it.

  Or not, depending on his mood.

  ‘You ready?’ said Victor. ‘One, two, three, ready or not – Kick!’

  Together, they kicked at the door. Their combined strength was very much greater than they had anticipated. The door exploded off its hinges and cracked completely in half, falling into the corridor beyond in a broken, tented shape, covering the body of the woman who lay just behind it.

  Michael stepped awkwardly over the door, and Victor followed him. Together, they lifted the door up and pushed it back into the reception area, where it tilted against the receptionist’s desk, like a drunk who teeters but refuses to fall down.

  On the floor lay the body of Dr Rice’s receptionist. Michael recognized her long brunette hair immediately. Her peach silk blouse had been dragged up at the back, and her pantyhose had been dragged downward, exposing the small of her back, her bottom and her upper thighs. Her skin was white as pork fat. There were two puncture wounds in the small of her back, not much blood, but very deep, as if she had been attacked with an office hole-puncher.

  ‘It’s them again,’ said Michael, his voice quiet with shock.

  Victor peered clo
sely at the puncture wounds. ‘Exactly the same.’

  Michael was just about to say, ‘I’m going to call Thomas Boyle,’ when the offices were filled with a terrible, agonized scream. It was a male scream, that’s what made it worse – the scream of a man who has been trying not to admit that he is suffering unendurable pain but at last has to let it out.

  Without a word, they hurried to the door and Michael kicked it wide open. It slammed back against the wall, juddered, and there was Dr Rice, sitting in his Oggetti chair, his face stiffly crumpled up like an old and filthy handkerchief, his fingernails digging so deep into the palms of his hands that dark red blood was welling up between his knuckles, his whole body bent and crunched-up.

  He looked like a medieval cripple, a leper who would drag himself from one market to another, and who would sit on the steps of the Holy Church, crying for mercy, begging for alms. Beside him stood two tall, wary, white-faced young men, their eyes concealed by intensely dark glasses. They wore black, these young men, as if they were priests or morticians or jazz musicians or agents of some Satanic sect. In a frightening way, they were cool. Jason would have said they were cool. But the one on the right was holding up a long-handled pair of industrial bolt-cutters, the really big mothers that could cut through steel bars the diameter of a man’s ankles; or even a man’s ankles.

  And they had.

  Dr Rice’s bloodied feet lay on the floor, ten inches below his ankles. They still wore chestnut-coloured wingtip Oxfords, and they still wore green-and-yellow Argyle socks. One foot lay on its side; the other foot still stood upright. Ten inches above them, his leg-bones protruded from the cringing scarlet flesh of his severed ankles, and blood pumped from his tibial arteries in terrible, rhythmic spurts.

  Michael heard himself shout, ‘ – doing, what are you doing!’ before he launched himself at the man with the bolt-cutters and seized his bolt-cutters and swung him around so that his back collided with Dr Rice’s file-cabinet. The white-faced young man was ridiculously light, and Michael was amazed that he had managed to throw him with such force. The file-cabinet rocked on its base, although it didn’t fall over. The young man, however, must have cracked his back, because he lay with his face pressed against the heather-coloured carpet, trembling like a poleaxed calf.