Sweet Dreams

by William W. Johnstone

  A 35 mm camera was readied.

  Jerry took a syringe from his bag and inserted the needle into Lisa’s arm, probing for the radial. He could not find it. The vein had collapsed. Using a scalpel, he cut the arm where the radial was supposed to be. There was no blood in the artery of the right or left arm. He inserted the needle behind her knee, probing for the popliteal. He got the same results. He changed needles and plunged the long needle into her chest, striking the arch of the aorta just above the heart. His eyes were filled with disbelief as he looked at the empty syringe. He put his equipment aside and rose to his feet.

  “What is it, Doc?” a young highway cop asked.

  “There is no blood in her body,” Jerry told the group of lawmen. “She has been drained dry.”

  6

  “Holy crap!” Marc whispered. He and Heather lay on the crest of a small bluff overlooking the dig site.

  “I think I’m gonna be sick,” Heather announced.

  “You’d better not barf on me,” Marc warned.

  She shushed him. “Be quiet. They’ll hear us and we’ll get into trouble.”

  “We’re looking at something really important here.” Marc ignored her warning.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Recognize that car over there?”

  “God!” Heather whispered hoarsely. “That’s Doctor Baldwin’s wife’s car.”

  “Yeah. So that means that’s his wife dead on the ground.”

  “God! You think he killed her?”

  “I don’t know. Look! Here comes another car. Listen.”

  The Mississippi County coroner and Doctor Baldwin knew each other slightly. They shook hands and Doctor Everett expressed his condolences.

  Jerry told him of the body being drained of blood.

  “Vampires!” Heather said, her voice carrying the short distance to the men below the bluff.

  The men looked up.

  “Shit!” Marc said. “Now you’ve done it.”

  “Hey!” the chief deputy called. “You kids get on out of here. Now you go right home or I’ll give you both a good lickin.’ ”

  Heather and Marc took off like they were shot from a cannon. They mounted their bikes and rode off down the road. Out of sight of the men, they hid their bikes in a clump of trees and raced on foot back to the dig site, coming up on the northwest side of the park. This time they hid more carefully and didn’t speak.

  “. . . can’t be serious!” the Mississippi County coroner was saying. “No blood in her?”

  “Check it yourself,” Jerry told him.

  The coroner did just that. When he looked up from the body, there was shock touched with fear in his eyes. “What the hell? . . .”

  “I don’t know,” Jerry stated. “But her rib cage is crushed. Whoever, or whatever did that to Lisa, was very strong.”

  The other coroner checked that. He nodded his head in agreement, his hands busy. “There should have been massive internal bleeding. This beats all I’ve ever seen.”

  “When do you fix time of death, Doctor?” the lieutenant asked.

  The Mississippi County man was thoughtful for a moment. “Just off the top of my head, I’d say between ten P.M. last evening and two A.M. this morning.” He looked at Jerry and Jerry nodded his head in agreement.

  “How about the press?” the chief deputy asked.

  “Sit on it,” Jerry quickly suggested.

  All heads turned to him, waiting for an explanation. Not that they really needed one, for in many cases the press is a cop’s worst enemy. The small-town press is, by and large, conservative in its reporting. Big city and national press people tend to be more liberal and oftentimes lean toward sensationalism. They sometimes paint the police with a dark brush.

  It was probably a cop, tongue in cheek, who coined the phrase: “The next time you’re in trouble, call a hippie.”

  “I think you would create total panic if the true facts about Lisa’s death were released,” Jerry said. The visiting coroner nodded his head in agreement. “Until we can get a qualified M.E. from the Cape to do a complete autopsy, we’re just two small-town doctors stumbling around in the dark; out of our field. We have two facts we are sure of. One: my wife is dead. Two: her death was not from natural causes. Now . . . I could go a lot further with this, but it would be pure speculation on my part.”

  “I’d like to hear it, Doc,” the MHP lieutenant said.

  Jerry met his level gaze. The trooper’s eyes were smoky, revealing nothing. “Do I get my rights read to me?”

  “Not at this time,” the trooper replied tersely. “If ever. At least as far as I’m concerned, that is. I’m thinking there may be some questions of jurisdiction in this matter.”

  “The dig site lies in two counties,” a deputy from Mississippi County said. “New Madrid and Mississippi counties.”

  “The archaeological team is being funded by some federal agency out of Washington, D.C.,” the chief deputy from New Madrid County said. “Does that bring the Feds into it?”

  “And the park is state property,” the young MHP officer stated. “Does that make it ours?”

  “Well . . . shit!” the MHP lieutenant said. “Let’s take first things first, people.” He looked at Jerry. “Give us your speculations, Doctor. Please,” he added.

  Jerry sighed, took a deep breath. “All right. One: her head was cooked. Baked at a very high temperature.”

  “I agree,” the Mississippi County coroner said. “How it was done is beyond me. And look at her eyes. They were burned white.”

  “Jesus Christ!” a young deputy said.

  Jerry said, “Two: all the blood is gone from Lisa’s body, so far as I can tell. Drained or sucked out. I’ve never seen anything like this. I don’t know what caused it.”

  “I concur,” the other coroner said.

  The young cops paled just a bit at this news.

  “Three: Lisa is . . . was, not a small woman. Her frame was medium. It would take a person possessing enormous strength – superhuman – to crush her chest. The human bone structure is a lot tougher than it appears, gentlemen. Therefore, I do not believe a human being did this.”

  The Mississippi County coroner nodded his head in reluctant agreement.

  The chief deputy from New Madrid County said, “There are no bears in this area, Doctor. Not for years.”

  “It wasn’t an animal,” Jerry said quietly.

  Heather gripped Marc’s hand and squeezed, seeking the comfort of human contact. He returned the gentle squeeze and whispered, “If it wasn’t a human or an animal – what was it?”

  “I don’t know,” Heather returned the whisper. “Marc! Look – over at the fence. The mask is gone.”

  The boy and girl stared at each other. Marc said, “Heather, we have to tell the police about this.”

  “They won’t believe us,” Heather whispered. “Adults don’t believe in ghosts and stuff like that. We probably won’t either in ten years. I think growing up means you lose something. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad.”

  “Then? . . .”

  “I don’t know. Listen.”

  “Doctor Baldwin,” the lieutenant said. “Exactly what are you saying?”

  Jerry shook his head. “Officer, let me ask you something. You’ve been a cop for a long time?”

  “Years.”

  “You’ve personally witnessed or seen pictures of . . . oh ... several hundred violent deaths?”

  “At least that many.”

  “Ever seen death, accidental or planned, that even vaguely resembled this?” He pointed to Lisa’s still-uncovered naked body.

  “No,” the big trooper admitted.

  Jerry’s eyes dropped to his nametag. Voyles. “All right. What I’m saying, Lieutenant Voyles, is this: would an animal bake Lisa’s head? Would a human being drain or suck every drop of blood from her body? It’s obvious to me that Lisa was killed right here. But are there any tracks other than her own? It rained last night; the area i
s still muddy. But the only tracks belong to Lisa. Look there.” He pointed to a wallowed-out spot in the spongy earth. “Lisa stood right there for some period of time. Her ankles are covered with dried mud. Caked on. It’s obvious she struggled with or against something while being forced to remain in this one spot . . . but what did she struggle with? If it was something . . . here we go ... tangible, wouldn’t there be footprints of some kind? Sure, there would. But where are they?”

  No one spoke for a moment. Finally, the young state trooper blurted out, “Jesus Christ, Doc. What in the hell are you suggesting?”

  Voyles looked at him. “Shut up, Kowalski.” He swung his gaze back to Jerry. “I could say that you are a very glib man, Doctor.”

  Jerry shrugged. “You’re treading on thin ice, Lieutenant. Maybe you’d better read me my rights.”

  “I said I could say it, Doc. There is no law prohibiting me from vocal speculation as long as it is not directed toward you in question form.”

  The chief deputy laughed. “I gotta remember that, Voyles.”

  “Or,” Voyles continued, “I could say that you are a very observant man, Doc. Maybe you should have been a cop.”

  “My oldest brother was,” Jerry said. “Missouri Highway Patrol. He was killed ten years ago in a shootout.”

  “Yeah,” Voyles said softly. “I should have put that together. Sergeant Charles Baldwin. Sure. Now I know who you are. The sportswriters used to call you ‘One-Two Baldwin.’ You were a hell of a boxer, Doc.”

  “But not a serious contender. I boxed to become a doctor. All right, Lieutenant, let’s clear the air. I last saw my wife alive yesterday morning, at my office. My nurse, Janet, was present. My wife and I quarreled. She left in a huff. Two kids, Marc Anderson and Heather Thomas saw her leave. As far as I know, she was heading for the Cape. Doctor Maryruth Benning and I worked with patients for about an hour, and then we had lunch together – at her home. I left there about three o’clock Saturday afternoon and went home. I took a nap, showered, and went back to Doctor Benning’s house for dinner. I arrived home just after midnight and went straight to bed. The phone rang about one forty-five this morning. It was Mrs. Flint. She is our local hypochondriac – one of them. She couldn’t sleep. I told her to take two aspirin and see me Monday morning. The next thing I knew, you people were knocking on my door. Here I am.”

  “His car was parked in his drive at twelve-thirty this morning,” the New Madrid deputy said. “I worked a fight out in the county and saw it on my way to the jail.”

  Voyles nodded. “Don’t leave the area,” he told Jerry. “Not without telling someone.”

  “Is that an order?” Jerry asked.

  “A suggestion.”

  Jerry asked that Lisa’s body be covered and the cover tied securely. “That’s so the ambulance people won’t see anything,” he explained.

  Voyles nodded his approval. “Should have been a cop,” he muttered.

  Jerry asked that a hospital in Cape Girardeau be notified and that a Doctor Finley be called in. “Tell him I would like to observe the autopsy. I’ll be up just as soon as I shower and dress.”

  “I think I’ll just tag along with you,” Voyles said.

  “Yes, mother,” Jerry replied.

  Heather and Marc did not tarry at the murder site after the men had departed. They got on their bikes and rode slowly back toward town. About halfway there, they stopped under a large shade tree to rest and talk.

  “Heather? What did you mean back there when you said growing up means losing something?”

  She chewed a mouthful of her peanut butter and jelly sandwich before answering. “Well ... do you believe in ghosts, Marc?”

  “Sure,” he quickly replied.

  “Most grownups don’t.”

  “Yeah, I know that. Kind of. But why don’t they?”

  “I don’t know. There are lots of things kids believe in that adults don’t.”

  Marc thought about that. “That may not be a hundred percent right, Heather. I think grownups kind of believe in ghosts and stuff like that. Just as many grownups go to scary shows as kids. Maybe they think it wouldn’t be cool for them to admit they believe in ghosts?”

  She looked at her friend. “You’re pretty sharp, Marc.”

  “Naw.”

  Heather took a drink of water and made a face at the taste of the tepid liquid. She spit it out. “Marc, would you think I’m crazy if I said that Doctor Baldwin’s bitchy wife got killed by something that’s . . . well, how do I say this?”

  “Something that’s not of this world.” Marc finished the sentence for her. “A spirit, or something like that. No. I wouldn’t think you’re nuts.”

  “Then that’s what you think, too?”

  “I guess so. But Heather, how come we can admit it and the cops won’t?”

  “That’s what confuses me, Marc. I think we’d better go home. And I think we’d better not say anything about what we saw today.”

  “Except to each other.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Heather?”

  She looked at him.

  “I’m scared.”

  She took his hand. “I am, too, Marc. But what really frightens me is I don’t know why we should be scared.”

  Everything has a center of being – a soul, if one wishes to call it that – everything created. A mighty mountain is awed by and fearful of the God Earthquake. The earth upon which we tread is fearful of the God Wind. A living forest is fearful of the God Lightning. A flower both respects and fears the God Rain. There are equal amounts of good and bad in everything . . . except when the gods make a mistake.

  Gods are not perfect. Although it is written that gods have their own rules, sometimes gods are created quite by accident. Sometimes they are created, quite unknowingly, evil.

  In the Christian religions such a god would be called Satan or Lucifer or Mephistopheles . . . there are many names for the Dark One. Among certain Indian tribes the Good God is called Wakan Tanka, whereas the Algonkian word Manitou is generally translated as Great Spirit. But not all Manitous are good. Many white missionaries tended to think of a Manitou as “God.” But the two are not the same. God, to the white man, is good. But there are both good and bad Manitous. Manitous are explained by the various Indian tribes as impersonal powers in the firmament; still other tribes describe a Manitou as a sort of spiritual electricity. Anything can be a Manitou. A river, an arrow, a bear, a wolf, a club, a mountain, a warrior or a flame. Anything.

  If by some quirk of nature, all those things were somehow combined, joined together by a malevolent force, then one would have a very evil Manitou.

  7

  “What you’d have is a bad motherfucker,” the old man said. “Is that what you mean, Bud?”

  “My name is Walks-By-Night,” the old Indian said proudly.

  “Walks-By-Night,” the old white man said. “Shit! Come nighttime you’re too drunk to even crawl, much less walk.”

  “That is not what my Indian name means, Leo. And you know it.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Big deal. You’re a medicine man.” He held out a bottle of wine. “So have some more medicine.”

  “Thank you. I believe I shall have a small taste.” Bud tilted the bottle and drank a full third of the fifth.

  “And you got a bottomless pit for a gut, too,” Leo observed.

  “True. I am a disgrace to my people.”

  “You ain’t Geronimo, that’s for sure.”

  The old Indian fixed his friend with a baleful look. “Geronimo was an Apache, fool! I am Osage.”

  “Be that as it may, Bud, but you’re just like me. Add us both up, and we’d come out to nothing.”

  “Yes, for once I fear you are correct.”

  “So tell me more about a Manitouy.”

  “Manitou! I have seen several in my lifetime. In visions. They are wonderful. Most awe inspiring.”

  “I keep forgetting you went to college. How in the hell did you end up livin’ in a teepee
by the Mississippi River?”

  “I saw one vision too many and became off balance. I lost my center of being.”

  “In plain ol’ American, you became a fallin’ down drunk.”

  “Crude, white man. Very crude. But,” he sighed, “reasonably accurate, I suppose.”

  “Bud? Now I’m bein’ serious. So cut the big words and jokes. You really think that goddamn thing by the railroad tracks is a Manitou?”

  “I know it is. It completed its rebirth last evening.”

  “Rebirth?”

  “Yes. I will try to explain, but it is something few adult white people can understand. White adults have no center of balance, so nature confounds them. I have known for many months the Manitou was attempting to rebirth. However, it was not strong enough. So it took the spirit – the electricity, if you will – of the disembodied head and then the impulses of the young people who go out to view the manifestation. When it had gathered enough energy to once more form, it was reborn.”

  “Electricity?”

  “All things are nothing more than electricity. There is an old Indian fable that lightning dances in the sky seeking its brothers and sisters still earthbound.”

  “Bud . . . I don’t know if you’re drunk or crazy or both.”

  “Perhaps a little of both, Leo.”

  “And now that this . . . Manitou is out, what is he – it – going to do?”

  “Kill.”

  “Kill?”

  “Are you both drunk and deaf. Kill. It killed last night.”

  “Bullshit, Bud.”

  “No, that is the truth. Its force has guided others to kill over the past few months. But it can kill itself. I saw it in a vision. It killed a woman. It ravaged her and took her blood and current. It must kill to survive. It is going to be a bad day for white people.”

  “You act like you don’t give a damn.”

  “Put yourself in my place and then ask that question.”

  “Bud, don’t start with that crap again. Just don’t.”

  “Why not? Does the truth offend you?”

  Leo sighed. A fellow really had to put up with a lot of shit from drinkin’ buddies – especially old Indians. But Bud was a pretty good joe – for an Indian.