Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  More to the point, I thought, if he really didn’t murder Ed Meachem, why the hell does he say he did?

  ***

  Despite the Arctic chill and new snow, Noah’s Ark boasted a decent-sized crowd. A half-dozen tables and most of the barstools were occupied, though few patrons were paying attention to the trio playing in the far corner. Working their way through an uninspired yet deafening cover of Brubeck’s “Take Five.”

  I was still brushing wet snowflakes from my jacket shoulders when Noah signaled for me from behind the bar. Stopping only to get a peck on the cheek from a harried Charlene, hefting a tray of drinks, I joined him there.

  “Glad you showed up, Danny.” Noah planted his forearms on the bar. “I’m close to havin’ an episode here.”

  A customer on a stool next to me glanced up, curious. Noah scowled at him and he went back to his beer.

  “What are you talking about?” I peered hard into his eyes. On the lookout for crazy. “You taking your meds?”

  “‘Course I am. If I didn’t, Charlene’d kill me.”

  “Only after I got done kicking your ass.”

  The trio behind us was so loud that it was hard to be both audible and private. Especially since the drummer had begun an ear-pummelling solo.

  I leaned further across the bar, mouth next to Noah’s ear. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Hate to say it, man, but it’s you.”

  “Me? What’d I do?”

  He turned away, then back again. As though reluctant to speak the words.

  “Look, Danny, I don’t wanna hurt your feelin’s, but you gotta stop recommendin’ this place to law enforcement types. It’s lowerin’ the caliber of clientele.”

  “You mean Dave Parnelli?”

  “He’s bad enough, but now I got G-men stinkin’ up the joint.”

  “What?”

  He jerked a thumb in the direction of the back wall. Special Agent Neal Alcott sat alone in a booth for four, nursing a Scotch. A stack of manilla folders at his elbow.

  “Says you’re workin’ with him and the FBI. You wanna be cozy with the cops, okay, but the fuckin’ Feds?…”

  “Sorry, Noah. I didn’t expect to see him here.”

  “I mean, shit, what’s next? Secret Service? CIA?”

  I waved him off and made my way through a clutch of crowded tables to Alcott’s booth. Slid in across from him.

  “Slumming, Agent Alcott?”

  He rubbed his reddened nose. Sniffed.

  “Just curious about the place, since it’s your regular watering hole. Thought it might help me figure you out.”

  “Any progress?”

  “Minimal. Got something for you, though.”

  He shoved the stack of files across the table.

  “I realized I forgot to give you John Jessup’s files. The ones I showed you in the car the other night. Might help if and when you get the chance to work with Barnes, since it was his last case. It could be connected to why he freaks out when he falls asleep.”

  “Could be.”

  “There’s also one on Barnes himself. His FBI dossier. All the sensitive stuff’s been redacted, of course. But you’ll find the pertinent biographical details on the guy. That oughtta help, too.”

  I eyed him suspiciously.

  “You’ve had a conversation with the director, haven’t you, Neal? Along the lines of your being more supportive of my involvement…?”

  He threw back the rest of his drink, tapped the glass irritably on the tabletop. I’d gotten my answer.

  “Hell, the whole thing’s moot, anyway.” Alcott craned his head around, looking for Charlene. “We’re no closer to finding Lyle Barnes than we were two days ago. We’ve sent people up to Franklin Park, even had our Illinois office reach out to his son in Chicago.”

  “Any luck?”

  “Barnes’ kid has no idea where his old man is. And doesn’t care. Turns out, they haven’t spoken in years. The prick hasn’t even met his grandchildren.”

  I didn’t comment. I figured Lyle Barnes was still my patient, at least theoretically, which meant I wasn’t about to discuss his personal life. Least of all with Alcott.

  The agent finally caught Charlene’s eye, and ordered himself another round. I ordered a draft Iron City. After which, Alcott and I sat in an uncomfortable silence until she returned with our drinks. And departed again.

  “By the way,” Alcott said at last, “I heard about the debacle in Steubenville. How you and Polk let the witness get killed, and the shooter get away. Nice work.”

  “You had to be there.”

  “Believe me, I wish I had.” He sipped his drink. “We lost a real opportunity to collar this bastard. You don’t get many breaks like that. I don’t blame you, of course. You’re a civilian. Shouldn’t have even been there. But Polk screwed the pooch on this, no question.”

  I raised my beer, took a long pull. “He’s fine, by the way. Thanks for asking.”

  Alcott laughed shortly. “Like I give a shit. This whole investigation has been a nightmare. The joint task force is a joke. Undisciplined. Too many chiefs. We’ve got no leads, and more leaks than a sieve. Plus it took forever to get forensics on the letters Jessup got in prison—”

  I indicated the files in front of me.

  “Is that new data included in this?”

  “Don’t worry, it’s all in there. Just got updated.”

  He barely got those last words out before sneezing violently. “Goddam cold’s getting worse.”

  Muttering curses, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his sore nose. Then downed the rest of his drink.

  “Now on top of everything,” he continued, “our only eyewitness gets himself killed. This perp’s making us all look like clowns.”

  “Speaking of the perp, what’s the status of his next potential victims? Especially Claire Cobb. Parnelli.”

  He shook his head in disgust. “Don’t get me started on those two. Claire asked to be moved again, so we have her in a motel in Wilkinsburg. No room service, so she’s gonna have to live on take-out. Serves her right.”

  “And Dave Parnelli?”

  “The other pain in my ass. He insisted his workload demanded constant attention. So I insisted he has one of our field agents with him at all times. Plus his movements are restricted either to his office or his home.”

  No bars? I thought, but didn’t say.

  “What about the rest? Others who might be on the killer’s hit list?”

  “The jury foreman and the two cops who arrested Jessup are under wraps in Cleveland. No hotel this time. One of our permanent safe houses. All three of ’em happy to be let off from work and under constant guard.”

  I considered this. “Makes it harder, doesn’t it, not knowing for sure who’s even on the list…”

  “You got that right, Rinaldi. Not to mention all the manpower we’ve wasted in the last forty-eight hours looking for Lyle Barnes. At this point, I say to hell with finding him. Let him take his chances with the killer.”

  “But what does the director say?”

  Alcott frowned bitterly. “He and Barnes went through the Academy together. They’re old friends. That’s why he wanted you to help him out. Cure him, or whatever.”

  “Cures are pretty tough to come by. I just hoped to help Barnes manage his symptoms. Or maybe, with luck, get to the root of them.”

  Alcott blew his nose, then abruptly got to his feet.

  “Yeah, well, to do that, we’d have to find him. And we’re havin’ as much luck with that as we are with finding the killer.”

  He threw some bills on the table. But I wanted to stay longer, have another beer. I tapped the files before me.

  “Thanks for these, by the way. They’ll help me get up to speed on John Jessup. And Lyle Barnes.”

  A shr
ug. “One thing the Bureau’s good at is compiling files. We got files on everybody.”

  He buttoned his coat and turned to go. Turned back. “Hell, Rinaldi, you oughtta see the one we have on you.”

  ***

  By the time I got home, two hours later, I was dangerously exhausted. The three beers I’d had before Noah closed up hadn’t helped. I made my way into my darkened living room, put the files Alcott had given me on the rolltop desk, and went straight to bed, stopping just long enough to get out of my shoes and coat. Then I fell, fully clothed, on top of the covers. And didn’t stir.

  I was thoroughly spent. Though my mind raced. Jumbled, incoherent thoughts crowding each other out. I knew I was experiencing a delayed reacton, emotionally and physically, to the past twenty-four hours’ stunning events. The shooting at the warehouse, Vincent Beck dying in my arms, my frantic pursuit of the killer, the violent struggle with Jimmy Talbot. Not to mention what had happened to Harry Polk.

  It was hitting me now. All of it. Images of blood and death. The fear, the dread. Sending long-suppressed shudders of anxiety coursing through me. The thickness in my chest hardening, like drying cement, as I drifted down into the black void of a deep, fathomless sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  I knew, as I pulled onto the highway, that the drive down to Wheeling, West Virginia—which usually took about an hour and change—was going to last a lot longer.

  During the night, the weather had turned angry. Fierce winds, hurtling snow, low visibility. Another winter storm thrashing the city, gathering strength as it rolled east.

  It was just past nine in the morning, and I was on my way to see Wes Currim.

  Fueled by three cups of black coffee, wearing my other Thinsulate coat and gloves, and with the dash heater on high, I drove slowly and deliberately through the blur of the storm. Heavy traffic made the slog from downtown to I-70 East even more ponderous than the radio had warned, so I was glad now, at last, to be out of the city.

  The highway itself was barely discernable, merely thin lanes of powdered white, cinder-block snowdrifts forming tunnel walls on either side. I drove in a kind of concentrated silence, hands at ten and two on the wheel, the only sound the metronome-steady squeak of the wipers. Though they fought a losing battle with the frost caking the windshield, testament to the numbing cold outside.

  As I crossed the state line, traffic thinned in both directions, though the storm’s intensity had increased. By the time I’d register the high beams of an approaching car or truck, emerging out of the swirling cloud of snow, our two vehicles would just about pass each other.

  I tightened my grip on the steering wheel, peering with renewed focus on the road ahead.

  So naturally my cell rang. It was in its dash holder, and I could see the caller’s number. Eleanor Lowrey. I pushed the button for the hands-free app.

  “Where are you, Danny?”

  “On my way to see Wes Currim. In Wheeling.”

  “I heard about that case. Should I even ask why you’re visiting a confessed murderer?”

  “I wouldn’t bother. Long story.”

  “Can’t wait to hear it. Meanwhile, the real news is that Harry’s fine.”

  “That’s great, Eleanor.”

  “I just left his room. He’s still groggy, high as a kite on pain meds. But Doctor Yu says he’ll definitely make a complete recovery.”

  “Do they know how long he’ll be out of commission?”

  “You know docs, they never want to make promises they can’t keep. But looks like Harry’s gonna need at least a month to recuperate.”

  “Which means he’ll give himself a week, right?”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it. He’s gonna get the rest he needs, even if I gotta tie him to his bed. Though Biegler’s bummed as hell about it, since the department’s stretched pretty thin at the moment. With the shooter still out there and the FBI detailing every spare cop to help look for that Barnes guy, losing a veteran like Harry is a real blow.”

  “Speaking of which, how’s the investigation going?”

  “It isn’t. We’re fielding every tip we get, chasing every lead, but coming up empty. It’s gotten so bad, we’re recanvassing all the crime scenes again. Cranshaw, the judge, and Claire Cobb. And the warehouse where Vincent Beck was killed.”

  “Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

  Her reply was a wry chuckle. If there was one thing this investigation was lacking so far, it was luck.

  “Listen, Danny—”

  Just then, a quartet of blazing lights appeared up ahead, glazing my windshield. A huge semi, heading west, rumbled past me. The wind shear made my Mustang’s chassis shudder, doors rattling in their hinges.

  I heard Eleanor gasp over the cell’s tiny speaker.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Semi. Big sucker.”

  “I assume you have tire chains.”

  “Put ’em on myself this morning.”

  “Good, ’cause I want you back in town in one piece. See, I remembered what I wanted to ask you the last time I called. Once I knew Harry was okay, it came back to me.”

  “What’s on your mind?”

  “Remember when we talked about working out together? Us two quasi-jocks? Last summer?”

  “If I recall, it was more like a challenge. So?”

  “Well, we never got around to it. We’ve both been busy, plus I had all that grief with my family…”

  A long pause from her end. My turn, I guessed.

  “Are you asking me out on a date, Detective?”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. I just figured…I mean, I was planning to hit the gym later this afternoon, anyway. Helps me think. Clears the cobwebs. I thought you might want to meet up there. If you’re free.”

  “I don’t know…sounds suspiciously like a date to me.”

  “Jesus, Rinaldi. How tough you gonna make this?”

  I laughed. “I’m just screwing with you, Eleanor. Time and place?”

  “The precinct gym, near the Old County Building. They just renovated the place. It’s pretty nice. How’s four?”

  “Four o’clock it is. I should be down and back long before then.”

  “Good. Machines and free weights. And, Danny..?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t worry, I won’t show you up too badly.”

  Her laugh was as warm and inviting as any man could want. A sound that stayed in my mind for more than a few moments after we hung up.

  I took a long breath, brought my attention back to the road. Eleanor Lowrey and I had been dancing around each other’s lives since last year, though duty, family, and circumstance seemed to conspire against us. Not to mention the fact that she was a cop, and I consulted with the department, which made us colleagues. Sort of.

  Great, I thought. If there’s a way to complicate things, I’d find it. Maybe it was the therapist in me. Though I sure as hell hoped not.

  A road sign appeared out of the storm on my right.

  Wheeling, fifteen miles.

  I smiled to myself. Between my intense focus on driving and the conversation with Eleanor, I hadn’t even noticed I’d crossed the state line into West Virginia.

  Feeling more settled, I reached into my CD stack and took out a—Suddenly, a dark shape filled my rear view mirror. Large, metallic. High beams blazing.

  The grille of a truck. Coming up fast behind me.

  Even with my windows sealed tight and the heater blasting, I heard its ominous roar.

  Gutteral. Insistent.

  I tore my gaze from the rear view, risked craning around to see.

  It was a junkyard pickup, battered, salt-pitted. License plate held by one screw, twisting in the wind, unreadable. Headlights flashing on and off.

  I couldn’t see the driver behind the crack
ed, ice-caked windshield. Just the massive front of the truck getting closer and closer, bearing down on me.

  My temples pounding in my ears, I turned back to the road ahead. Nothing but a grey, nightmarish billow, from which came an unending rush of snow. Swirling, cascading.

  Without a thought, I sped up. Racing blindly into the maw of the storm.

  A glance at the rear view. He was accelerating, too.

  Gaining on me. Faster and faster.

  Fucking lunatic! Was he going to—?

  The sickening sound of metal against metal as he rear-ended me. The Mustang lurching forward.

  I felt the powerful jolt, pain spider-webbing up my back. Panic rising, I gripped the wheel tighter, struggling to maintain control as he rammed me again from behind.

  This time, my car’s chains spun uselessly and I careened into the oncoming lane. Taking every ounce of strength to right myself again. Pumping the brakes.

  Just as another quartet of high, nova-bright lights emerged from the storm. Another semi, barreling toward me. I was in his lane, struggling to slow down. Regain control.

  He wouldn’t even see me until it was too late.

  A cry I didn’t recognize tore from my throat as I swung the wheel with all my might, angling back toward my own lane. Swerving to avoid those twenty relentless tons of steel and rubber.

  The semi roared past on my left, missing me by the width of a hand. Wind shear was twice as potent as I’d felt before. My car shaking, as though it might come apart.

  Not even daring to breathe, I focused on steadying myself in my lane. Then slowly accelerating. Pulling away.

  I didn’t make it.

  The pickup filled my rear view again. Engine whining louder than the storm’s wail, it rammed me again.

  The impact lifted me half out of my seat, steering wheel spinning under my fingers. I managed to grab it, hold it steady. A death grip.

  Too late. I was fishtailing on the icy asphalt. Skidding. Chained tires screaming in protest, I tried to turn in the direction of the skid.

  No luck. As though caught in a vortex, I went into a 360-degree spin. The world outside my windows rushing in a formless, circular whirl.

  The air pushed out from my lungs. Time became fluid, unreal. There was only the feeling of directionless motion. Unstoppable. Going faster and faster.