“How’s the Prozac working? The dosage okay?”
“It’s fine,” he said.
“Jon, I’m going to be honest with you: you don’t appear well. You’re quite pale, and I think you’ve lost weight since last time, as well.”
“Almost twenty pounds.”
“What’s going on?”
“I’m not sleeping.”
“How many hours are you getting a night?”
He thought a moment. “Last night, I think I got less than an hour. But most nights it’s not even that. I’ll just sit on the couch or on the patio and stare at nothing.” He grinned. “I wish I smoked, because that would at least be something to do.”
“When did this start?”
“About two months ago.”
“Were you introduced to something new two months ago? A stressor at work or home?”
He shook his head. “No, I’ve looked back and don’t see anything.”
“Are you dreaming when you sleep?”
“Sometimes.”
“What do you dream about?”
He rubbed his palms together and leaned his head back. “Let’s see… I think the last dream I had, I was underground, like in a makeshift grave looking up, and everything was red. Dark red. I floated up from the grave and stood there, and no one was around. It started snowing, and the red went away.” He stopped.
“Don’t stop. What else?”
He swallowed. “I saw my fiancée standing behind me.”
“And what happened next?”
He looked down at the floor, rubbing his palms together. “I pushed her into the grave.”
When she didn’t say anything, he glanced up and then couldn’t look away from her. They sat in silence for a moment.
“What do you think it means?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I don’t know. My work, maybe—it’s destroyed any relationships I’ve ever had. It’ll destroy this one, too. Maybe even destroy her.”
Dr. Vaquer pressed her hands together. She moved like someone who was constantly being observed. Maybe she’d taken etiquette classes at some point in her life.
“Do you feel you’ll destroy your relationship with her, or that your work will?”
“Both. And not just destroy my relationship. Mel, my ex, almost died once. Someone got into our home. I had to fire at him while he held her. I had to fire a gun at my wife…”
“You never talked much about that. Or the times you’ve been burned or shot. I treat other police officers, and they haven’t gone through half of what you have.”
“They don’t chase the type of people I chase.”
“Sometimes they do. And when they get hurt, they get help. Jon, do you even realize how much trauma is involved in getting shot?”
He nodded. “I know. I remember the first time I was shot. It’s not like in the movies. I thought it would be. Screaming and pain, but that I could still get up and walk around. I thought you had to be shot in the head or torso to die, but that’s not true. Most people are killed with shots to the legs or arms. The pain can be minimal so they think they’re fine, and they bleed to death in less than eight minutes.” He tugged the collar on his shirt lower, showing a scar on his chest and neck. “This burn happened years ago. Something I had to do to save my life—it killed another man, a police officer, in the process. I still feel this sometimes. It tingles, like it never wants me to forget that it’s there. Same with every stab wound and gunshot I’ve ever had. I got stabbed through the arm once in Utah, and that pain will start aching out of nowhere. Just an intense ache that sometimes stops me in my tracks.”
“Does the pain remind you of what caused it, or are you able to separate it?”
“I can’t separate it. I remember exactly where it happened and who caused it. It’s like I have a troupe of ghosts following me around.”
“I know you’re religious—do you believe in ghosts? That those who pass can haunt certain places or people?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I believe anymore. I think sometimes I’m only religious because the alternative is too frightening: a meaningless universe where we’re here for a flash and gone almost instantly. What would be the point of waking up in the morning if that was all we were—a biological accident that will eventually be extinguished?”
“That’s a grim way to see it. A lot of atheists find meaning in life just by the virtue of having it, without having to worry about what happens after death.”
“Do they? I don’t know. Maybe they convince themselves they’re happy in the same way I can convince myself that a burning bush talked to Moses. We choose how we want the universe to work. It’s a canvas, and we give it meaning.”
“Maybe, but maybe it comes with its own meaning. Maybe our job in this life is to find that meaning.” She hesitated. “There’s a deeper issue, though, isn’t there? We’ve talked about it before. Your inability to trust.”
He shrugged.
“You told me once that we can never actually know anyone. That there’s so many layers, we don’t really know which layer we’re seeing—the real person or the image they want us to see. Do you see what kind of consequences that would have in life?”
He nodded. “I know. I don’t have many friends, and my relationships are usually disasters. But I have Julie. She’s the best woman I’ve ever known. I’m happy with her.”
“How many people in your life would you say you trust, Jon? Actually, utterly, trust?”
He exhaled loudly and tipped his head back. “Julie, of course. My sons, an old friend named Mickey… my partner Laka… I think that’s it.”
“So why do you trust them over everybody else?”
A wave of nausea and fatigue washed over him, and he didn’t feel like talking anymore. He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. Natalia, the reason I set this appointment was I was hoping you could prescribe something to help me sleep.”
“You told me once you don’t like relying on narcotics.”
“I don’t, but I don’t know what else to do.” He paused. “Have you ever heard of micro-naps?”
She shook her head. “No. But it sounds vaguely familiar—a symptom of insomnia, I think?”
He nodded. “After long enough with no sleep, your body can’t handle the stress anymore and begins to shut down. It will put you to sleep whenever it can, force it on you. I studied it a bit in grad school. Many people with abnormally violent psychopathologies also suffer from insomnia. During a micro-nap, they’ll be dreaming but not know they’re dreaming. Or they’ll be awake and think it’s a dream. It completely blurs the line between the two states. Some of their delusions—talking to God, having their dogs tell them to murder—are actually dreams they’re having during micro-naps.”
“Are you having micro-naps?”
He hesitated. “The other day, I saw a man I hadn’t thought about for a long time, an old partner of mine named Eli Sherman.”
“The one who tried to kill you?”
Stanton nodded. “I was sitting in a bookstore and looked up and saw him standing near the entrance. He leaned against this wooden pillar that was there for decoration and smiled at me. I jumped out of my seat and pulled my gun. I blinked, and he was gone.” He grinned sadly. “Must’ve scared everyone in there half to death.”
She leaned forward. “What you just told me is very serious, Jon. You need time off of work.”
“I can’t. Not yet. I just got something today that isn’t sitting right with me. I have to finish it first.”
“I don’t think that’s wise. Surely some other detective can take one of your cases.”
“Not this one. I think I need to work it.”
“How long will it take?”
“I don’t know. A couple weeks, maybe. Maybe a little longer.”
“How about we give it two weeks? If it’s not wrapped up in two weeks, you promise me you’ll give it to someone else. And then you immediately take some vacation time—the l
onger, the better. I’ll get you some prescriptions that will help with falling asleep, but they’re not cure-alls. If you fight the urge to sleep, they won’t work. You have to relax and let it come over you.”
“There’s nothing I want more right now.”
She glanced down for a second. “Jon, you can’t carry a gun while you’re hallucinating.” She had a duty to have him committed should he be putting the public at risk—even against his will, if it was necessary.
“I know. I’ve left it at home.” He rubbed his face. “I just need to finish up this one favor for a friend, then I think I need to leave the island for a while. I’m getting island fever on top of everything else, just…claustrophobic.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
He inhaled deeply and stood up. “Thank you.”
“Jon,” she said quickly, “one last thing: sometimes insomnia and depression can be caused by an unconscious realization. You have to think of the unconscious as a mind within a mind. It can pick up things your conscious mind simply can’t. I’ve had patients whose unconscious picked up something horrific going on in their lives, but the information simply never came up as conscious thought. Is there anything like that you can think of? Some terrible secret that your unconscious has picked up on but refuses to allow into your conscious thoughts because it would be too painful?”
He thought a moment. “No, nothing.”
“Are you sure? Maybe take some time and give me a call if you think of anything.”
“Okay, but I’m telling you, there’s no great secret that my unconscious has picked up on that I haven’t.”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “you call me if one of those hallucinatory episodes happens again. You have my cell number.”
Stanton nodded, though he knew he wouldn’t call. “I will,” was all he said as he left, and shut the door behind him.
9
After signing documents at her lawyer’s office, Rachel Scott left and got into her car. She felt tired but exhilarated: in two days, she would be lying on a beach in the Caribbean, far the hell away from here and all the memories this city and this island had.
She stopped at a coffee shop. As she got in line, she checked her phone and saw a couple of texts from her mother and a few from her boss, Kyle.
I’m horny, he wrote.
You can have me all you want when we get to the island. Not before silly
UR driving me crazy!
I know ;)
Behind her, the door opened, and a man in a tank top with shoulder-length brunette hair walked in. The muscles on his arms were so lean that she could see veins in his shoulders. Along with a few tribal tattoos, he had a Native American totem pole inked on his upper arms. His face had scruff and a childlike amusement to it. He smiled at her, and she turned away. She hadn’t felt that flutter in her stomach in a long time, the same feeling she’d gotten in high school when she’d walk by a cute boy and hope he noticed her.
“What happened to your phone?” the man said from behind her.
“What?” She turned around.
“Your phone. It’s cracked.”
“Oh,” she said with a shy grin. “I dropped it in the parking lot of a wine store. You believe that? Had a case and everything. I’ll have to get a new one soon.”
“I wouldn’t. And I’d toss this one, too.”
“Really? I’d never survive without a phone.”
“I dropped mine into the ocean years ago. I had to leave for a trip and thought about getting a new one for about two weeks. When I got back, I kept putting it off and putting it off. Before I knew it, five weeks had gone by without a phone. That’s when I decided I’d never get one again.”
“How do you talk to people you need to talk to?”
“They can email me, and I’ll eventually check it. See I have this automatic response that says I only check my email once a week. Then once a week I sit down and see if there’s anything there. You’d be surprised how many problems take care of themselves when people know you’re not available. I feel like I have my life back.”
She smiled as the line moved forward and he moved to stand next to her. “And what do you do with all this newfound time?” she asked.
“I surf.”
“You surf,” she said. “That’s it?”
“No, I do other things, too. I climbed one of the rock faces in Yosemite last month and base-jumped off. We had these wing suits to slow our fall and help us glide. I thought I knew then, gliding through the air above trees and streams, why God created birds: it was so something can see the world like He does.”
“Oh, I guess without a phone you’re a poet, too.”
She instantly felt stupid saying that and hoped he didn’t take it as an insult. She felt a bit flustered. She noticed some other women in the coffee shop stealing glances at him, and their hints of jealousy excited her.
He didn’t seem to be insulted and just smiled at her. “No, no poet. I just say what I see.” He held out his hand. “I’m Dane.”
“Rachel. Nice to meet you.”
She’d reached the counter and gave her order. “Large coffee. To go.”
As she was taking her credit card out of her purse, Dane gently put his hand on hers, sending a little shock through her fingers. “Let me get that,” he said as he took out some cash.
“No, it’s really fine.”
“I insist.” He laid a twenty on the counter and said, “Coconut water for me, please.” He looked at her and leaned his elbows on the counter. “You know, I had that look, too. Before I ditched the phone and my job.”
“Your job, too?”
“Oh yeah. No employer would want me if they can never reach me. I walked in and told him I was done.”
“What did you do?”
“I was a lawyer.”
“You?” she said with a chuckle.
“I know, it’s wild, isn’t it?”
“I mean, you look like…”
“Like I live on the beach. You can say it.”
She laughed. “A little. So, like, what do you do for money and bills?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know. My house was paid off, so I got that. I teach surfing or sell some jewelry I make from things I find on the beach when I need money. It all works out.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that. So this look you have, it’s the look I had until I let go of everything. This kind of serious look that life is just a shit-storm to get through and nothing else.”
“Feels like it sometimes.”
“It’s not,” he said seriously. “It’s beautiful. It’s a gift, and the true sin is not using it.”
The barista put the coffee and coconut water down on the counter, and Dane thanked him.
“Well, better go,” he said.
She felt a wave of disappointment she didn’t think she would as she said, “Nice talking to you.”
“You, too.”
As she was about to turn away, he said, “Hey, you surf?”
“No, never.”
“What’s the point in living on an island if you don’t surf? Come see me tonight. First lesson’s on me.”
“Oh, I don’t think I could tonight.”
“Your look, remember? You don’t want that scrunched-up, stressed look to ruin that beautiful skin. You gotta let loose sometimes. I’m at Kona Beach. I’ll be there at seven. We can do a lesson and then night surf. You’ll love it.”
“Maybe. I’ll see.”
He smiled, and the dimples in his cheeks gave her that same tingling in her stomach. “I hope you come. If not, try ditching the phone sometime. You’ll thank me months down the line when you’re free.”
He left, and she leaned against the counter and sighed as she sipped her coffee. Kyle, her boss, was twenty years her senior. He was a means to an end. She had absolutely no plans to allow his disgusting hands anywhere near her once they touched down out of the country, but Dane… He looked like he came off the co
ver of a romance novel. She felt a little jolt when she thought of him and wondered if that sort of thing was real: an instant connection with someone else. It put a smile on her face as she walked out of the coffee shop and decided she would be at Kona Beach tonight.
10
Stanton waited until nightfall. He went home long enough to take Hanny for a walk and have a dinner of crab and sparkling apple juice with Julie. She would’ve preferred white wine, and he knew she found it odd that he didn’t drink, but she didn’t do it around him, and he appreciated it.
After dinner, she gave him a kiss and told him to hurry home, and he said he would. They had planning to do for the wedding, something he put off every time she brought it up. He hadn’t even met her family yet. The only thing he knew about them was that they were evangelicals and had warned Julie to stay away from Mormons when they found out he was one.
Stanton drove back to the warehouse. The foreman opened the gate for him and waited while Stanton pulled through and parked. He was an older man with thinning hair, still wearing his work overalls.
“Won’t take long, will it?” he asked. “Got dinner waiting for me back home with the wifey.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know how long I’ll be. Do you want to give me your cell and I’ll call you when I’m done?”
“No, I don’t want to drive back. Tell you what, I’ll lock everything up and put a timer on the alarm to turn on. Let’s say you got two hours. All you have to do is shut the doors and the gate behind you when you leave, and it’ll all lock when the alarm comes on.”
“That should be fine. Thanks.”
Stanton went inside and flicked on the lights as the foreman closed things up. Once Stanton was alone, he turned on the flashlight on his phone. Most of the lights were off already, and once he got out on the factory floor, he found that it was even darker. He wandered around a while, taking in the machines and the giant metal shapes that lay around, ready to be shipped or stored. A slash in the seat of the forklift caught his attention, and he ran his finger along it. The edges felt like it had been done with a knife or other sharp blade. He passed a calendar of naked women. Black fingerprints from oil-soaked hands dotted the genitals and breasts of the current month’s model. Stanton moved past it to the stairs.
Purgatory (Jon Stanton Mysteries Book 11) Page 3
