“Right! So either she’s alive or I’m crazy and saw a ghost. You happy?”
She raised her hand to key open the door…and it popped open. Then creaked opened further.
Liddy stared. Her eyes darted from the door’s lock to its handle to the sliver of dark interior beyond. She heard Paul’s breath catch.
“I locked this,” she whispered, feeling chilled.
“Liddy.”
“I locked it, I remember distinctly.”
She knew he was thinking, Right, like you saw Sasha Perry.
“Wait here,” he said raggedly.
With a jerky movement he pushed in, leaving the door open. Liddy peered fearfully into the interior, seeing him turn on lamps, cross the loft’s open expanse to the bedroom and the other rooms. She was stunned, not believing this, her anger collapsing as she plunged back into self-doubt. Her eyes flew back to the lock, the new one they’d replaced for the old one, and she shook her head.
“Locked it,” escaped thinly from her lips, sounding like the soft mewling of a child.
Paul was back. “Nothing.” He pointed unhappily to the security keypad. “You didn’t set this either?”
Either. Hurtful word, saying she was out of it.
“That I forgot” – her voice shook – “but I clearly remember locking the door.” Something that had felt full of strong and righteous anger minutes before was gone, plowed under. She felt incredulous and beaten; let him take her arm and lead her in, closing and locking the door, punching the security pad. Everything from the last few hours came back and she questioned it…like the Help in the shower wall mist, and seeing Sasha in the street - had any of it really happened? No one else saw Sasha…so had she, Liddy, gone truly crazy, paranoid, seeing and imagining things?
Paul had left her standing in the middle of the room and dropped, miserable, to the couch with his back to her, facing the flat screen. A lamp by his side glowed softly. It was the Victorian glass lamp Liddy had bought just days before, and it hurt, remembering how buoyant she had felt. Now the awful pent-up feeling was back, like a large, pressing hand over her heart.
What to do with this pain? Go into her studio and lock the door? Lie down on the window seat, try to decompress?
Possible. He wouldn’t bother her, but she knew she’d still feel wretched.
Like a dummy he sat. From the back he looked dead, almost, as if someone had just left him there, propped him up with his head drooping.
Her turmoil was giving way to guilt. One thing about Paul: if they fought and she relented first, he’d come around and they’d both feel better. Touch brows, say sorry. In a way, Paul was emotionally like her mirror. He took his cues from her…same as he took his cues from Carl. His problem was that he was too malleable. Liddy saw what he didn’t, but he was still caught in the middle.
She came, took a deep breath, and sat stiffly next to him. His arms were folded and he stared at nothing, looking ill. It was depressingly quiet in the apartment. Now the two of them must have looked like dummies, staring glassily ahead at the blank flat screen.
“Sorry,” she said, biting back a last, stubborn chip of anger.
He inhaled. Let a long moment pass, then said, “Me too.”
She fell back on the cushions, glad, at least, to feel her heart start to slow.
More silence passed between them. Finally, very quietly, Paul said, “Please go back to Minton.”
“I never stopped.”
“You cut from twice a week to once a week.”
She realized then why she’d sat next to him. Something strong inside her was back, announcing it was still there – fighting. “He’s useless. Just gives me pills, talks and talks and says nothing.”
“Some of that talk might be useful.”
She felt it: Paul’s turmoil still coming off him in waves. Still looking ahead, he said in that same quiet voice, “You really think you saw that girl?”
Liddy took a deep breath. “Yes.”
“In the neighborhood?”
“Yes. Running away from me.”
“Out of the whole city you think you saw her here.”
“She went to NYU. Here or the Village would be logical.”
Paul hesitated; glanced uneasily over to Charlie Bass’s plants.
“Been spraying ‘em?”
“Yes.”
“Seeing any apparitions? Blond girl’s faces?”
“Not in two days.” It was true, and no way was Liddy going to mention seeing the word Help hours earlier in the steamy shower stall. The something strong in her was kicking harder, straining to pull her back up.
Paul’s arm went to the end table beside him. Under the Victorian glass lamp he found the DVD of Charlie Bass’s Vampire Island.
“What’s this?”
“Bought it for a lark.” She wanted to sound confident; saw again her exchange with the friendly young assistant at Pete’s Old Books, and the memory cheered her. “See? No fear here of things that go bump in the night.” Paul looked worriedly at her, so she added, figuring any kind of talk helped ease further tension, “In the store they said the movie’s sweet, actually - and sad. Charlie played a guy who didn’t want to be a vampire, but he was surrounded, threatened. Showed his talent in his struggle against onrushing tragedy.”
The change of subject seemed to work a little. If all else failed, even a lousy cable show was better than this silence.
“Let’s see.” Paul rose slowly, stiffly, went to the flat screen, pushed in the DVD and started it.
Liddy turned off the lamp and they watched. A glowing distance shot of some desert island came into view as music swelled; then there was Charlie, lying wet on a beach like a castaway just washed to shore. Credits rolled. A stranger approached, friendly and concerned-looking – kinda like Ben Allen, Liddy caught herself thinking and squashed it, her heart hurting from negativity.
“I googled the movie,” she said, trying to keep up her lame patter. “Charlie lost thirty pounds filming it.”
Paul shifted and said nothing, his face still tight in the dimness.
Charlie was hungry? asked the stranger on the beach. Come meet our hostages. Hostages? Ten minutes in Charlie found out what that meant and was horrified. Fifteen minutes in someone jumped him, and in a scene of horrible, bloody struggle sank his fangs into Charlie’s neck. He was now a vampire too - but a good vampire, protesting, begging. He escaped and tried to hide but they were everywhere and he was starving, worse and worse, his face going skull-like with dark, sickly shadows under his eyes, literally wasting away on the screen. He begged and pleaded…
…and Paul got up. “It’s stupid,” he said, going to the window.
Liddy exhaled in defeat. Nice try. He was still seriously upset and - face it, she thought; we both are.
Now what?
She switched off the movie, couldn’t stand the silence, turned on the TV. The news was on. Excited coverage of a dark, floodlit street blazing with police and emergency vehicles, the voiceover describing the stunning capture of terrifying serial rapist and killer, Ray Gruner. Then came a close up, and Liddy caught her breath at the familiar face and swinging blond ponytail helping get Gruner into a police car. The camera tightened its focus on the alert, pretty face as the voiceover said, “…Detective Kerri Blasco, instrumental in building the months-long case against Gruner, also in the news as the only police officer still investigating the case of missing coed, Sasha Perry.”
Paul turned from staring out the window. “Blasco,” he said dismally. “Your friend?”
Liddy blinked at the screen, feeling a ping of joy as she remembered Kerri smiling, listening kindly that night in the police station; remembered too their conversation when she’d called to identify Sasha’s ear stud. She’d been upset and crying. Kerri had been comforting, had taken time, reassured her.
Call if anything, she said.
Right now this second, Liddy wanted to run into the studio or the bathroom, lock the door and call her, tell h
er about seeing Sasha just three hours ago. Her heart started pounding…she was bursting to call…and then she stopped, remembering that no one else seemed to have seen Sasha; remembering too the damned front door she could have sworn she’d locked…and hadn’t because there it was again, before her eyes popping open at just a touch, creaking further open into darkness…
Self doubt tore at her. Push to remember more, she decided, some further detail - maybe even sleep on it, let the wine and Nicki’s martini finish wearing off. They were crazy busy now anyway, the cops. Calling could wait…
The news had switched to a pet food commercial.
Liddy switched off the TV, turned the small lamp back on, and went to Paul.
33
Jubilation! The place sounded like the roof was going to blow off, with voices pitched high and glasses clinking and odd bursts of laughter penetrating the general commotion. They were at Haley’s Bar, on West 45th, with more cops and reporters still running in, the reporters squeezing through with their cameras and asking how did it feel, this great success?
Bleeping bleeping great, they got with grins over and over – okay, edits required - but the pictures would still look fantastic on the morning news after they re-ran the blazing night scene of Gruner’s capture. Reporters looked around for more celebrants to interview. A lot of them were still watching the overhead TVs, but they’d seen it before, cable was running the capture non-stop, and they went back to their cheers and hugging and back-slapping. Oh, this was fun.
Pushing her way to the bar, Kerri waved to various members of her team. Pints were raised to her. Alex slid his beer to her and she raised his glass back. A female reporter reached her, thrust out her mike and asked excitedly how she felt. Kerri’s flushed face turned thoughtful.
“We’re all relieved, naturally,” she said, giving Alex back his pint. He turned from the reporter to talk to Buck Dillon and Jo Babiak. “My team,” Kerri intoned, “and over fifty members of the police force worked hard.” She hesitated. “We’d like to think the city is now a safer place, and it is but there’s always more. There are so many crimes.”
“Speaking of which,” the reporter pressed - she was caked with makeup and loud – “You are the last officer to devote your personal time to the Sasha Perry case. Have you made any progress there?”
“’Fraid I can’t comment, thank you,” Kerry said, politely dismissing, turning back to Alex and the others. A few minutes of glad, weary exchange passed between them, then Jo Babiak glanced out to the crowd and said, “Hey, Hank’s here.”
Happy Henry Kubic, the bespectacled FBI psychiatrist who’d done a profile for them on Gruner and others; had really nailed Gruner’s addiction to killing and its timing, predicting he’d be unable to go much more than eight or nine days before resuming his prowl. Kerri normally didn’t place much stock in FBI profilers – they were often way off – but Hank was good. He had intuition on top of his science; Kerri believed in intuition.
He was in a blue shirt and jeans talking with two off-duty detectives from the sixth precinct. She went to him; got hugs from both cops who waved and peeled off, then another big, embarrassing squeeze from Hank Kubic.
“Congrats, I’m so happy,” he said, grinning behind his wire rims. “Couldn’t stay away especially ‘cause I’ve got something for you.”
“Oh?”
Another reporter was bugging Kerri so she ignored and suggested they find a quiet place. They did, in a booth way at the end where the crowd was thinner.
“Tell,” she said, sliding in, facing him. The flameless candle between them didn’t throw much light. Silverware for two and checkered cloth napkins filled a mason jar.
From his breast pocket he’d already pulled folded papers and was spreading them. “Sorry it’s been crazy, I finally got the chance to look at Liddy Barron – what you know about her, anyway. This is something. There’s a few red flags here.”
He looked like Jiminy Cricket, Hank did, and when something excited or fascinated him, his small frame nearly bounced around in enthusiasm. Months ago they had a different killer about to get off on a technicality, and Hank had gone off on what seemed like an annoying tangent about the creep’s hatred of shoelaces – and then: “He fears confinement! Shut him in a closet!” Minutes later the slime was screaming to get out, screaming he’d tell where he’d buried the bodies, hidden his gun. Now Hank was pointing and tapping on his papers and starting to spew about Shakespeare and Dostoyevsky, then excusing himself, saying he should back up, start from the beginning.
“You wanted to know the possibility, just the possibility, right?”
“Actually it wasn’t me, it was Mackey’s suggestion – read, order. Our dear lieutenant’s been getting worried and frustrated with me, says I look too tired, says he heard I nearly keeled over at last Wednesday’s deposition.”
“Ah, hence the request I look at this?”
Kerri nodded. Hank nodded too and went back to his papers.
“Hallucinations and nightmares can come from a person’s own guilt. I’m not saying this is Liddy Barron – neither of us knows enough – it’s just something you should consider.”
Kerri stared at his clipped, upside down report: several pages, longer than she’d dreamed he’d make, especially since he’d volunteered his time.
“You’re saying,” she frowned slightly, “that the person reporting the torment of nightmares etc. could be the bad guy?”
“It happens.” Hank rotated his papers so she could read them. “Case histories compared with Liddy Barron’s. Again I can’t say identical or even close because neither of us knows enough.”
He knew Kerri could both read and listen, so he continued.
“She came to you, right?”
“Yes. Out of the blue.”
“So a cry for help or attention - or…” He hesitated. “A confession, the beginning anyway.”
Kerri looked up from his notes.
“In describing her nightmares, they all involved water?”
“Yes.”
“No PTSD stuff at all about her car accident?”
“No.”
Hank grunted; then counted off items one by one on his fingers. “That photo Sasha sent her friend of the Hudson, combined with the fact that the Barron boat is kept at the 79th Street docks near where that photo was taken, combined with these water images Liddy described to you - wanted to tell you about…”
“Also wanted to show her Sasha sketch, said she wasn’t sure she’d ever even seen her, wanted me to know that too.”
“Yes…yes…” Hank’s fingers drummed. “Wow.”
He leaned forward. “Here’s the thing: Say someone in the heat of a terrible moment does something so horrible that the memory must repress it…but it can’t – that’s what makes us human, the psyche really can’t force out memories too awful to face, so they come out sideways - as other things that are easier to deal with like ghosts or hallucinations or anything scary that’s socially okay to complain about.”
Kerri stared at the flameless candle, listening, taking it in as Hank pulled the silverware-stuffed mason jar to him and raced back to Shakespeare.
“The best psychiatrist ever, better than Freud, Shakespeare was. Consider Macbeth, a seriously screwed-up guy, weak, insecure, jealous, wants to kill the king so he can be king.”
“One semester of English lit, I remember. Macbeth wanted to be king of Scotland.”
“Right, only he’s a terrified weenie, so his scheming, ambitious wife Lady Macbeth pushes and goads him so even before he kills he’s so pressured - starting to go nuts - that he starts seeing hallucinations.” Hank pulled a steak knife from the mason jar’s napkin. “Is this a dagger I see before me?” Hank waved his knife wildly. “Poor Mac really thinks he’s seeing it! Then he has to kill Banquo, his former best friend, fellow general and sudden rival” – Hank jerked the knife past his throat – “so next it’s Banquo’s ghost he thinks he sees and freaks out, embarrasses his wife who tel
ls their freaked-out dinner guests he’s just having a fit, an illness. But they both go bonkers – the whole play’s really about insanity – remember Lady Macbeth sleepwalking and hallucinating about blood on her hands? Out, damn spot! Whew - the best description of paranoia anywhere and it was done by Shakespeare in 1609! Unless you count Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment where Raskolnikov sees the ghost of the woman he murdered laughing at him, driving him crazy…”
“I get it.” Kerri was nodding. “Guilt still spills out.”
“It splinters the mind. Both Macbeth and his missus slip into madness and hallucinations – see terror that isn’t there.” Hank started re-rolling his knife into its checkered napkin. “So how does this apply to your case?” He leaned forward with his eyebrows up. “I don’t know. Just wanted you to see the big picture. The mind is a crazy thing.”
“I’ll say.”
He handed her his several-page printout. “For you. Fascinating cases, several parallels to this one.”
Kerri shook her head, picturing Liddy Barron looking so lost and scared that night she came to the squad room. “I hope none of this applies.”
“Ditto. What are you going to do now?”
“I don’t know. Think hard.” Kerri started putting the papers into her bag.
“Maybe just call her. Ask how she’s feeling.”
“I thought of that.”
“If you do, ask her about sleepwalking. Seeing dead people.”
34
Paul was standing with his back to her, looking out. Coming closer, Liddy saw his gaze shift from the building across the way to somewhere down the street. Neither of them spoke. He wore the same troubled look he’d worn since they’d come back to the apartment.
Something was off here. Liddy frowned, looking out, sifting through everything that had happened in this whole, awful night. Something nagged, and she realized it had been nagging from the moment they left the restaurant. She looked back to Paul, wanting to gauge his reaction.
“Why did you tell Carl you’d had too much to drink and couldn’t work tonight?”
Fear Dreams Page 13
