Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  By the time the car righted itself, coming out of the spin, it was hurtling in a diagonal across the oncoming lane. And then I was bumping off the side of the road, plowing through the banked snow at full speed. Tilting and rattling as I hit the white-blanketed woods beyond. Ice-glazed branches scraping the windows, clawing the sides of the car. Loud, hawk-like screeches.

  Until, finally, the Mustang’s nose buried itself in a shallow ditch full of snow and frozen mud. And shuddered to a stop.

  Gasping, head thudding painfully, I scrambled from behind the wheel. Stumbled out into the ceaseless cold, the buffeting wind. Ice cracking beneath my boots.

  Clutching the door frame, I peered out onto the snow-shrouded road, just in time to see the rear lights of the pickup as it roared by.

  Vanishing into the belly of the storm.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Meth freaks. Hadda be.”

  Chief Avery Block, Wheeling PD, came around his desk holding two steaming mugs of black coffee. Behind him, the carafe burbled noisily, sharing shelf space with a photo of some lakeside cabin, a small plastic replica of City Hall, and a bronzed bowling trophy.

  I gratefully took a mug between my two chafed hands.

  “I heard there’re a lot of meth labs in the area.” I swear my teeth were still chattering. Post-impact stress.

  Chief Block snorted, then sat on the corner of his desk. Weary gaze angling down at me, sitting in the room’s only other chair.

  “Shit, it’s a growth industry around here. Only part of the economy still goin’ strong, I guess.”

  The chief’s office at the main precinct was larger than I’d expected, but otherwise bore all the familiar markers. Wood-paneled. Shoulder-high metal files. The governor’s official photo on the wall, framed importantly between the American flag and the state one.

  Standard issue or not, the office had a good working heater, and at the moment that was all I cared about. That, and the unlikely fact I was still alive.

  After the crash, I’d no sooner tried climbing out of the roadside ditch than I felt a rushing wave of nausea. I stumbled, fell forward, gasping. My vision was blurred, and a sudden, searing pain buckled my neck. Whiplash, maybe.

  Aching and shivering, gulping frigid air, I staggered up the embankment to the edge of the road. Instinctively rubbing my sore neck, I just sat there, winded, knees drawn up. Listening to the hollow pounding of my heart.

  Finally, I managed to call AAA on my cell and ask for a tow truck. Then I phoned Chief Block and explained that I’d be a bit late in arriving, though I didn’t tell him why. Not then.

  When the tow truck showed up, the driver got out, took one look at my car, and shook his head.

  “Well, it ain’t totalled, mister. But damned near.”

  I’d gotten shakily to my feet to help him secure a tow line to the rear of the Mustang, but he waved me off. Luckily, the ditch was shallow enough that pulling the car out wasn’t too difficult. But it was plainly undriveable.

  I gingerly joined him in the front seat of the truck and we towed my car to an auto repair shop the driver knew. Once there, I spent another twenty minutes with the shop’s service manager, who explained he’d need until Monday afternoon—at the earliest—to call me with an estimate. Given his look of barely-contained glee, I knew the repairs would be costly.

  Not that I had much choice. So I signed some papers, shook hands with the guy, and asked if there was a car rental place nearby. He pointed to the peak-roofed building across the street.

  By the time I’d rented a late-model Ford sedan and gotten back on the road, it was nearing noon. The storm had abated. Winds decreasing, snow thinning to flurries. Pale fingers of sunlight reaching through the trees.

  Thankfully, my vision had cleared by then, though my neck had grown stiff, throbbing painfully. Every time I turned the wheel, I felt my shoulders pinch, as though snagged on something.

  I stopped at a local store for Motrin, downed three pills with some bottled water, then drove on to the Wheeling precinct, where a bored, chinless desk officer directed me to Chief Block’s office.

  “Goddam meth dealers think they rule the roads,” the Chief was saying now, between tentative sips from his mug. “We hear of somebody gettin’ hassled about once a week. Not just tourists, either. Business people, families. Hell, last year a couple o’ them joy-ridin’ sons-o’-bitches ran a squad car off the road.”

  “So you don’t think this was maybe somebody trying to stop me from talking to Wes Currim?”

  He laughed bitterly.

  “Listen, Doc, if it was in my power, I’d stop you from talkin’ to Currim. But the order came from upstairs, so my hands are tied. Though I still think it’s bullshit.”

  “Why?”

  “‘Cause the crazy bastard confessed! He’s guilty, and he knows he’s guilty. So do I. So does everybody.”

  “His mother tells a different story, Chief.”

  “Yeah, well, she would, wouldn’t she?”

  Rousing himself, he hauled his heavy frame off his desk and re-took his seat behind it. As he leaned back, the wheeled leather chair squeaked in protest.

  “Now don’t cause no trouble, okay, Doc? This visit with Currim is just a formality. A favor our bleedin’ heart lady DA is doin’ for the bleedin’ hearts up your way. I mean, we appreciate your helpin’ out with Currim before, but here’s where it ends. You good with that?”

  I nodded. “Believe me, I see it pretty much the same way. One short meeting with Currim and then I’m gone.”

  This seemed to mollify him, for he gave me his version of a smile and pushed a button on his desk phone console.

  “Hey, Harve…? Ya wanna step in my office?”

  In moments, Sergeant Harve Randall entered, a bulky fur-collared parka over his police uniform. I rose and we shook hands. He was as spare and wiry as I remembered.

  “How’s it hangin’, Doc?” Randall grinned. “Sure didn’t expect to see you again. After what we found up at the old house, poor Ed Meachem hacked all to pieces, I figured you’d seen ‘bout enough of this place.”

  “I’m kind of surprised myself, Sergeant.”

  Block looked up as he casually unwrapped a stick of nicotine gum. “Do me a favor, will ya, Harve? Escort the doc over to lock-up. He’s here to see Wes Currim.”

  Randall frowned. “No shit? What for?”

  “That ain’t our concern, Sergeant. Now just do what I asked ya, okay? The sooner he sees Wes, the sooner he can be on his way.”

  Block popped the gum in his mouth. “No offense, Doc.”

  “None taken.”

  ***

  Slapping his arms against the cold, Randall led me across the plowed precinct lot to the adjacent building. The lockup was a predictably bleak, block-long structure, all gray brick and barred windows. Pockets of snow rounded its corners, icicles hung from its low eaves. Though I doubted it looked any less forbidding in the summer.

  “Don’t mind Chief Block.” Randall’s breath was coming in puffs. “He’s nearin’ retirement, and lately he just hates aggravation. This Currim thing—”

  “A bit too public for the chief, I’ll bet.”

  Randall chuckled. “Damn straight. They practically had to drag him in front o’ the camera when the DA gave her press conference.”

  “I saw. You didn’t look too happy, either.”

  “No, sir. Not one bit.”

  He stopped then and spread his hands, taking in the near-deserted lot.

  “Anyway, that was the last straw for the chief. Past couple days, this place was swarmin’ with reporters, TV news vans. He finally put his foot down, had the mayor tell ’em to clear out. We weren’t grantin’ any more interviews, and havin’ all that ruckus here was interferin’ with the investigation.”

  “Looks like it worked.”

 
We’d arrived at the heavy double doors fronting the building. Plexiglass windows interlaced with wire netting.

  Randall paused again, gloved hand on the door knob.

  “Look, Doc, I ain’t no shrink, but if you want my advice, don’t say nothin’ bad to Wes about his mother. She was in here yesterday, and one o’ the guards musta said somethin’ about her, ’cause Wes kinda lost it. Yellin’ and screamin’ like all get-out. Hadda be subdued.”

  “Is he okay? Was he hurt?”

  “No, nothin’ like that. He calmed right down, sounds like. But, man, he’s got some kinda weird thing with her. Ya know? Like he’s her little husband or some shit. Totally fucked up.”

  I didn’t reply. After a moment, Randall shrugged, feigning disinterest, and pushed open the door.

  I followed him into the small front lobby, where he introduced me to the desk officer and had me sign in. Then he directed me to a narrow corridor.

  “Go on down and make a left, and you’ll see the cell block door. Guard there will take you to the visitors’ area and bring Wes in to you there.”

  I thanked him and started down the corridor. He called after me. I stopped, turned.

  “Listen, Doc,” he said, voice oddly tentative. “Ya want me to look into that thing with the pickup? Maybe try to find out who ran you off the road?”

  “I appreciate the offer, Sergeant. But you’re probably not going to find anything, are you?”

  He sheepishly scratched his ear. “Probably not.”

  I nodded and headed back down the corridor.

  Chapter Twenty-six

  “Ya know, I don’t gotta say nothin’ to nobody.”

  “That’s true, Wes. You don’t.”

  Wes Currim and I sat across from each other at a smooth pinewood table. Aside from our two chairs, it was the only stick of furniture in the small, featureless room.

  In contrast to the wintry temperature outside, the air was warm to the point of stifling, thanks to a huge heating vent in a near corner.

  There was also a single window, high and rectangular, through which I could see a guard standing in the adjoining room. His gaze narrow-eyed and suspicious.

  Wes had been seated when I was ushered into the room, and hadn’t risen to shake hands. Had barely raised his head in acknowledgement when I sat down.

  He was less anxious and jangly than he’d been in the patrol car on our way to Meachem’s body. But not by much. He hadn’t shaved since then, so that his face seemed narrower, more wan, under the bristles. And his eyes were blinking rapidly, as though stung with something acidic. Trying to manufacture tears.

  “If you don’t want to talk,” I tried again, “then why am I sitting here?”

  A cool smirk. “My lawyer, Mr. Hansen, forced me to let you come. Says it’ll look good to a jury that I wanted to confide in someone like you.”

  “Are you going to confide in someone like me?”

  “Fuck, no. Hansen’s an asshole. He don’t give a shit what happens to me. But I’m supposed to be all grateful to my brothers for hirin’ him. Well, I’m not, and I hope he ends up costin’ ’em a fortune in lawyer’s fees.”

  “You don’t like your brothers?”

  “Goes both ways. They don’t like me much, either. Think they’re better n’ me. Always have.”

  I leaned across the table, staring hard at him until he had no choice but to look back.

  “Listen, Wes. Truth is, I’m not sure I give a shit what happens to you. But your mother does. And she swears you’re not guilty. That you were at her house, helping her clean out the attic, the night of Meachem’s murder.”

  “Well, she’s lyin’. That’s what I told Hansen, that’s what I told the DA, and that’s what I’m tellin’ you.”

  “Why would she lie?”

  “What are you, a fuckin’ moron? To protect me. I’m her son and she loves me.”

  “So she’d lie to keep you out of prison?”

  “My mother’d do anything for me. Just like I’d do anything for her. Anything!”

  I watched the pulse jumping in his neck, his level of agitation rising.

  It didn’t help that the over-heated air was bringing beads of sweat to his brow. And to mine. I suddenly wished I’d asked the guard for some water before entering.

  “It’s been that way for a long time, hasn’t it, Wes? You and your mother, taking care of each other.”

  “That’s right. Long time.”

  “Since your father ran away with his girlfriend?”

  “Even before that. All he ever cared about—” His jaw tightened. “He never treated her right. Never! Then he starts fuckin’ his secretary, for Christ’s sake, right behind my mother’s back…”

  He paused, rubbed the hairs on his cheeks. “I mean, after all she did for him…he goes and runs off with this little cunt. Broke my mother’s heart.”

  “And you never heard from him again?”

  “Nope. Not a word. Not a goddam word.”

  He fell silent for a long moment. Calming himself. Hands splayed flat on the table.

  “Wes,” I said quietly. “Did you kill Ed Meachem?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you assault him in that supermarket parking lot, knock him out, and take him to your uncle’s house in the woods?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Like I told the cops. Like I told everybody. I was gonna hold him for ransom.”

  “Why?”

  “Another stupid question. For the goddam money.”

  “What happened?”

  “He came to and tried to escape, so I killed him and cut him into pieces.”

  He swallowed hard, as though his throat hurt.

  “And you got the idea to do this because of the Handyman’s crimes? How he’d dismembered his victims?”

  “Yeah. Everybody knows about that. He’s famous. But only I thought o’ puttin’ Meachem’s head on the snowman. That was my idea. All mine.”

  “And you did all this—the kidnapping, the murder—just for the money? For drug money?”

  “I didn’t do it for fun, if that’s what you think.”

  A thin, wayward smile. “Except for the last part. The thing with the dude’s head. That was fun.”

  The pulse in his neck was nearly vibrating, it was pumping so fast. Excitement at the memory? Pleasure at the thought he was shocking me?

  “So you’re this stone killer,” I went on. “You need money and decide to get some. You methodically pick your victim out because he looks rich, drives an expensive car. You bring him to an isolated spot, planning to hold him for ransom, but things go wrong and he ends up dead. So you hack the body to pieces. Then, just for fun, you build a snowman and put the victim’s severed head on top.”

  “That’s pretty much it, Doc. Ya got me.”

  Palms rubbing the table now, as though cleaning it. Placid smile intact, belying his anxiety.

  “Then I just have one question,” I said. “One thing that’s bothered me from the start. Why the hell did you turn yourself in?”

  His smile deserted him. Palms stopped moving.

  “What?”

  “Why did you confess? Meachem had been missing for a week, the police had no leads. Suddenly you show up and say you did it. You’re even willing to show the cops where you left the remains. Why?”

  He swallowed again.

  “I—I felt guilty. I mean, I fuckin’ killed a guy. I never planned on killin’ nobody. I just wanted the money.”

  “So why wait a week before going to the cops?”

  “‘Cause I was scared. I knew that if I turned myself in, I was lookin’ at life in the state pen. Hard time. Shit, man, I was just…I didn’t wanna do it. But then…”

  “Then what?”

  He took a deep, slow
breath. As though it was the first he’d taken in a long time.

  “I kept seein’ the story on the news. The guy’s family cryin’ on TV, askin’ for help findin’ him. Sayin’ if anyone out there knew anything…ya know what I mean…”

  I nodded.

  “I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat…felt sick all the time, like I was gonna throw up. Plus I figgered, hell, they’re gonna find the body sooner or later…”

  “Maybe. But here’s what I don’t understand. Let’s say the police did find the body at your uncle’s house. In that case, you had to know they’d start questioning you, your whole family. Anyone who might have known about the house, or had access to it.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So why did you leave the remains there? Why not put all the body parts in some trash bags and get rid of them?”

  He hesitated for a moment. A long moment.

  “Jesus, I don’t know,” he said at last. “I wasn’t thinkin’ right. I guess I shoulda done that. I probably shoulda got rid o’ everything, and…Like I said, I just wasn’t thinkin’ right…”

  Then, as if flipping a switch, he grew animated. Flashed me that same dark, unnerving smile.

  “Fuck it, maybe they’re right about me, after all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, maybe I’m just crazy, like everybody says.” He sat back then, hands behind his head. “They don’t put you in the big house if you’re crazy, right?”

  I didn’t say anything. Just watched him watching me, a strained, empty silence settling between us. Filled only by the cotton-soft hiss of hot air rising from the wall vent.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was clear. Defiant.

  “Or maybe I’m just playin’ ya, Doc. Playin’ all o’ you. Ever think o’ that?”

  “I’ve considered that possibility. Which means you’re guilty. That you’ve been guilty all along.”

  He gave a hoarse laugh. “Christ, Doc, that’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ya. Shit, how many times does a guy gotta confess around here?”