The Sleep Police

by Jay Bonansinga

  Go! Now! Finish it!

  Frank started up the stairs. The iron banister trembled under his weight, and the steps squeaked as he ascended, and he realized in a terrifying moment of clarity that he was heading upward toward the belfry, and the mere thought of confronting this warped, Old Testament monster in the spire of a church was making Frank buzz with terror. He reached the top of the staircase and found another set of narrow, rotted wooden steps leading up into the shadows.

  What are you waiting for?!

  He scaled the narrow steps, his weight making the ancient risers creak. By now he was at least four or five stories above ground and still climbing. At the top of the stairs he came upon an unmarked plywood door.

  Do it! Come on!

  Aiming the gun with a white-knuckle grip, teeth clenched, Frank yelled, “CHICAGO HOMICIDE! POPE! BACK AWAY FROM THE DOOR! AND PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR HEAD!”

  He kicked the door open.

  Shafts of blood-red light assaulted his eyes, and he took a tentative step inside the crow’s nest with the gun gripped in both hands—tripod posture—his muscles coiled and ready for anything.

  He was in an airless chamber at the top of the belfry tower, the south wall slashed down the middle with a jagged crescent of broken stained glass. The place probably once served as a choir loft, with padlocked double doors on the inner wall opening out over the congregation. But now it was transformed into some sort of demented sanctum sanctorum.

  Frank swept the gun barrel across the walls. They were plastered with photographs, placards and snapshots of medical procedures, and in a single, frenzied moment, Frank realized what he was looking at: photographs of abortions. Close-ups of mangled fetuses on laboratory paper. Propaganda posters with slogans like “Stop the Silent Holocaust” and “Abortion Equals Murder.” Even tiny wallet-size photos of babies and small children, arranged in feverish mosaics across water-warped poster board.

  Standing there, breathless, gripping the .38 in trembling hands, Frank felt his heart turn to ice. Dizziness slammed into him.

  In the shadows across the room, something moved.

  Frank tensed, pointing the Diamondback at it, calling out, “On the floor, Pope! It’s over!”

  The thing in the shadows writhed for a moment, then made a feeble, muffled sound. Frank took a tentative step closer. His gun was raised and cocked and ready to roll at any second, and he squinted to see through the shadows as he approached. Pupils dilating, adjusting to the darkness. The shape coming into focus. It was a figure.

  A woman was tied to an armchair in the shadows. Mouth duct-taped. Head bound by the neck with thick cable. Eyes sleepy. Woozy. Probably drugged.

  Approaching slowly, gun raised, the barrel jerking from shadow to shadow, Frank’s brain was still piecing the forensic puzzle together. Frank was still a cop after all, and he could not stop making the case: The pentobarbital in the victims’ bloodstreams was to keep them cooperative while Pope brought them here, and the unexplained lesions across the platysma muscles of the their necks were from the cable, which was designed to keep their heads in place so they would pay attention.

  The realization just now seeping into Frank’s mind: This was a classroom.

  Then Frank glanced down at the woman, and all at once the terror blared in his brain like a broken horn because he recognized the women. He recognized her bony shoulders, her streaked blonde hair and frightened hazel eyes.

  “Chloe—!?”

  Frank was starting toward her, reaching out for her, when he heard another sound.

  It came from behind him, and before he even had a chance to whirl around he saw two things that told him it was already too late: Chloe’s eyes widening suddenly, expanding to the size of half dollars, and a long, stooped shadow slithering up behind him, emerging from behind the door.

  Frank spun around just in time to see a blur of wood coming at him.

  The two-by-four struck him so hard across the bridge of his nose that it made his skull ring like a broken bell.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The doctor stood there for a moment in the scarlet light and the sound of Chloe’s muffled screaming, watching the detective stagger on watery knees.

  Pope struck the detective a second time—a hard, dry slap against the side of Frank’s head—and that was enough. The detective folded up and toppled to the floor, dropping his gun and landing flat on his back.

  Pope was trembling with fatigue and adrenaline now as he stood over the detective, gazing down at the younger man with a strange mixture of repulsion and admiration. Pope tossed the two-by-four across the room, the board making a loud clatter as it landed in the corner.

  The woman in the chair kept screaming underneath the duct tape.

  The doctor took some deep breaths, smoothing down his matted gray hair with trembling, arthritic fingers. He was shivering under his damp pajama top. He was exhausted, too, and his chest was tight, and he was having trouble getting a full breath into his lungs. He had allowed things to get out of control, and now he would have to clean up his mess. Such a pity, too. After all he had been through. Especially last night. Staying late at the precinct house after Frank’s escape, then slipping out the back, then finding the ex-wife’s two-flat, then waiting for her to come home from her rendezvous with the detective, and finally snatching her from her bedroom.

  Across the room, the woman named Chloe ran out of breath, her scream deteriorating into muffled sobs.

  What a perfect student she had turned out to be—considering her history—and what a coincidence that Frank Janus had been involved with such a woman. Pope had only discovered the facts a few days ago. Thumbing through Frank’s old files, he had stumbled upon the psychiatric history of Chloe Driscoll. She had been treated for bouts of reactive depression twice in her adult life, and when Pope tracked down her insurance claim history, he saw the sources of her anguish. Two—count them!—two separate dilatation and curettage procedures. A pair of abortions—ordered as casually as root canals.

  A sudden, garbled groan came out of the detective, and Pope glanced down at Frank Janus.

  The younger man was still conscious—albeit barely—which was precisely how Pope wanted him at this point. Pope knelt down on sore knees, bending down close to Frank, close enough for Frank to hear him. “It’s a shame, Frank,” the doctor purred. “That it has to end like this.”

  The detective’s eyes were barely open.

  “A young man in the prime of life,” Pope went on, tugging on the neck of his pajamas, reaching down into his shirt. He pulled out a gold crucifix that was hanging on a chain around his neck—the same crucifix that the doctor had tried to give to Frank in the transport van.

  “Tortured by the fact that his own ex-wife murdered two babies while they were married.” The doctor dangled the gold cross in front of Frank’s heavy-lidded eyes. “He does the only thing makes sense to him.”

  Frank tried to speak, but only a watery gurgle came out.

  “He kills her,” the doctor said softly.

  Pope reached down with palsied fingers and carefully pried open the gold cross. It was hinged, and when it clicked open, it began to play “That Old Rugged Cross” in tiny, delicate notes—a miniature music box.

  “And then he kills himself,” the doctor whispered, the chain dangling in front of the detective.

  All of a sudden the music hit a glitch. A tiny skip in the clockwork of the music box. And the hymn got stuck—a single note repeating endlessly.

  And the crucifix continued dangling, swinging gently back and forth, the single dissonant note chiming with the steadiness and monotony of a metronome.

  And the doctor started speaking in a soft, rhythmic voice, the perfect cadence to initiate the induction phase of a rapid hypnosis session.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Frank tried to look away, tried to yank his mind away from the crucifix, but that single note—that tiny piece of metal clicking inside the mechanism of the cross, chiming ever so sof
tly under the sound of Chloe’s muffled moans—was irresistible, and the pain was like a vice grip on Frank’s skull, holding him in place on the floor, and all he could do was stare at that radiant golden cross floating in front of his face, swaying ever so gently in the darkness.

  “It’ll all be over soon,” Pope was softly informing him. “Because you’re back on that beach, Frank, the one that takes all the pain away.”

  The cross... swaying.

  “I’m going to count backwards from ten again, and by the time I reach one, you will be completely under. Ready? Here comes the first wave—ten!”

  Chime!

  Frank tried to concentrate on his brother. Yes. Kyle. That would counteract the trance. Memories of Kyle. But something was wrong. It wasn’t working. The more Frank tried to remember his brother and block out the sound of Pope’s voice and resist the images being conjured in his mind’s eye, the more he saw that beach from his imagination. The one with the pristine white sand like sifted flour. Frank is lying there, and the opal-colored sea water is lapping over him in great rhythmic waves, and he’s sinking through the floor of the belfry tower.

  “Here comes another wave, Frank—nine!”

  Chime!

  Pope was murmuring, dangling the locket, the single chime striking. “It gently washes over your feet, as warm as a mother’s womb, and here comes another one—eight!”

  Chime!

  Frank’s body was getting heavy now, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. The pain was throbbing in his skull, and his vision was all smeared and gauzy, and all he could see was the dull glimmer of that crucifix swaying before his eyes, and all he could hear was Pope’s coarse, honey-sweet voice.

  “Here comes another one, Frank—seven!— chime! -- washing over your feet and legs. It’s the most relaxing sensation you’ve ever felt, and it’s putting you into a deeper trance—six!”

  Chime!

  The floor of the belfry tower was turning soft like taffy, and Frank could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper, and he could hear the angry voice in his head—Fight it, goddamnit, think of Kyle, think of something, but don’t let this son of a bitch put you under!—but the voice was fading, and the crimson light was gleaming off the gold cross, and Frank was sinking into a deep, hypnotic sleep.

  Pope murmuring softly: “The warm salt water is washing over your feet now—five!”

  Chime!

  “And it’s washing over your legs and your midsection now, relaxing every muscle, sending you into a deeper level of sleep—four!”

  Chime!

  Frank was covered in warmth now, and Pope’s voice was as soft as a lullaby: “Another wave, another surge of warmth flowing over your feet and your legs and your midsection, over your chest and your arms—three!—and you’re almost completely under, and you can still hear me.”

  Chime!

  Frank could barely see anything, his body completely submerged now. Only his face rose above the soupy, warm quicksand of the floor. And all he could see was the faintest glimmer of a scarlet-hued crucifix swaying gently before his eyes.

  “Here comes one final wave—two!—and the warm water finally covers your face.”

  Chime!

  Pope snapped his fingers. “One!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Darkness engulfed Frank. Deep, black and eternal. Not at all like the darkness of a country night, or an unlighted room, or even deep space. This was darkness that suggested a tomb. This was the darkness of the grave. Dead, empty, closed-in darkness.

  And the silence was broken only by the sound of a soft, gravelly voice.

  “That’s good, Frank, that’s very good. Can you still hear me?”

  Frank heard the reply—a voice very much like his own, but disengaged and out synch with his lips, saying, “Yes, I can hear you.”

  “We’ve come a long way, Frank.”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ve made some amazing discoveries.”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s another personality inside you, isn’t there?”

  After a pause: “I think so.”

  “This isn’t you, and it isn’t the thumb sucker killer that we created, is it?”

  “No, I guess it’s not.”

  “Who is it?”

  No answer.

  “Frank, please answer me.”

  Something flickered suddenly in the darkness, and Frank caught a glimpse of it. It was a blur of white slashing across the blackness, and it seemed to stain the back of Frank’s retinas, too indistinct to identify.

  “Frank?”

  “I don’t know,” he heard himself say.

  “Is it the angry version of you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Is it where all the anger lives?”

  “I don’t—I don’t really know.”

  “There’s something else I want you to do, Frank, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s the last thing that you’ll have to do, and then we’ll be all done.”

  “All right.”

  “I want you to kill that other Frank.”

  Something flashed again across the blackness, and Frank recognized it this time: the gleam of tiny ivory fangs ripping through the dark, the pointed snout of a rabid raccoon. The creature was there one moment, and gone the next, but it seemed to slash out at Frank, waking him up, waking up his rage, peeling away the darkness.

  “Frank? Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you do that for me?”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know how I want you to do it?”

  “No.”

  “I want you to write a suicide note, and then I want you to jump out the window. Okay?”

  “All right.”

  “And it’ll all be over, and there won’t be any more pain. Okay, Frank?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good, very good.” The sound of dry, papery rustling, and shadowy objects moving around the room. “I want you to give me your hand, Frank,” Pope’s voice was coming from somewhere nearby. The darkness was peeling away, and the floor of the belfry tower was coming into focus. “Here,” Pope said. “Right down here, your hand.”

  Frank’s eyelids fluttered, and he saw the floor, the side of his face pressed against the filthy tile, little puffs of dust with every breath. He looked to his right and saw he was holding a Magic Marker, and Pope was steering his hand over a piece of brown butcher paper.

  “I... Am... Sorry...” Pope was reciting, pressing Frank’s hand against the paper. Frank watched his hand begin to write the words.

  “…For...All...The...Pain...I...Have...Caused...”

  A low, buzzing sound was building in the back of Frank’s brain, the same feral noise that had once come out of the raccoon so many years ago.

  “...To...My...Fellow...Policemen...”

  Frank saw something gleaming on the tile about five feet away, and he fixed his sights on it like a predator preparing to pounce.

  “...And...To...My...Family...”

  The growling vibrations were spreading down Frank’s spine, and through his marrow, as though his body were a superconductor.

  “...I...Now...Leave...This...World...”

  Inside Frank a spring was coiling, tensing, preparing to strike. He could see the .38 lying just out of reach across the room.

  “...May...God...Forgive...Me.”

  Frank suddenly sprang to his feet—

  —as the doctor toppled backward in shock, careening to the floor—

  —just as the tape burst free of Chloe’s mouth, her scream filling the air like shrapnel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  It all happened with the surreal, undercranked motion of a dream or a very bad car accident where violent actions and reactions spin off each other in seemingly endless moments of inexorable doom—

  —which is exactly how it appeared to Chloe as she writhed and squirmed in the chair, watching the two men t
umble across the loft. She wasn’t even conscious of her own voice anymore, which had now been reduced to a single, broken howl. She had forgotten about her bruises, and the cotton in her brain from the sedative, and the liquid fire around her neck from the cable, and the horrible pictures that were wrenching her heart apart, and even the terror that had incapacitated her from the moment she had been kidnapped from her own bedroom. Her attention was focused with laserlike intensity on the gun.

  For a single, excruciating instant, Frank’s weapon lay in limbo on the tiles.

  Then Frank came hurling across the room, landing on the gun with a grunt, grabbing at it with fumbling hands. It slipped out of his gasp and skittered across the floor. Frank slammed against the wall. He cried out inarticulately, scrambling back to his hands and feet. Behind him, Pope was struggling to his feet. Chloe could see the doctor sucking in decrepit breaths, his body trembling with pain.

  Frank made another mad scurry for the gun. But Pope was moving again, and before Frank could get his hands on the revolver, Pope had pounced on him.

  Chloe let out a caterwauling scream with the last of her vocal chords.

  The two men went down hard, sliding across the floor, grappling. Frank shoved the old man off him and muscled himself back to his feet, scooping up the gun. But it was too late, because they were too close to the window, and Pope was putting everything he had into shoving Frank toward the cracked stained glass.

  Chloe watched the next few seconds transpire over what seemed to be an eternity in her traumatized mind.

  Several things were happening all at once as Frank spun around and tried to shoot: Frank’s balance went all to hell, and his legs got tangled under him, and he cried out with a start as Pope lurched at him with big, calloused hands outstretched, shoving as hard as he could, and Frank careened backward, out of control toward the window.