Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

Agent Green blinked at his boss in confusion.

  “You mean, all three states on the grid? Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Ohio?”

  “The servers are being shut down as we speak.”

  Then Zarnicki waded in. “Sir, with all due respect, is the director serious? Without the interagency network, there’s no way to coordinate the operation.”

  Eleanor leaned forward in her seat. “He’s right, Agent Alcott. If we shut down the interface, we reduce the amount of input from the various jurisdictions involved. Which means reducing the number of possible leads.”

  “I agree with all of you,” Alcott said calmly. “This seriously hamstrings our ability to gather intel, as well as collate evidence. But the director believes it’s worth it in terms of security.”

  Biegler frowned. “Then how the hell do we do our jobs? We have half the force working the case. Interviewing the vics’ families, friends, coworkers. Responding to hundreds of anonymous tips. Going over every inch of the various crime scenes. Not just us, but Cleveland and Steubenville PD, too. And we all gotta communicate, so we don’t end up tripping over each other’s feet.”

  “Same goes for our people, sir,” said Zarnicki. “Right hand’s gotta know what the left hand’s doin’.”

  Alcott drew himself up. “Look, I’m well aware of the down-side. So is the director. But we’re gonna have to switch to a need-to-know basis. Close the circle. At least till we get some kinda handle on how the killer’s been staying one step ahead of us.”

  He paused then, as though awaiting further questions. Or objections. None were forthcoming.

  Because we all knew Alcott was right. As were the people above him, from whom he took his orders.

  Given the past three day’s events, either the killer had someone inside the investigation providing him with information. Or else the person on the inside was the killer himself.

  Perhaps, I realized, even someone in this room.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  I’d just pulled up to the curb opposite Noah’s Ark when my cell rang. I looked at the display. Then, with a twinge of guilt, I let the call go over to voice mail.

  After waiting a minute, I checked the message. It was meaningfully brief.

  “Hi, Danny. It’s Nancy. See if you can guess why I’m calling.”

  Then she’d hung up. I replayed it, smiling now at Dr. Nancy Mendors’ mock-severe tone.

  Truth is, I was surprised she’d waited this long to call and chastize me for getting mixed up—once again—in a police investigation. Ever since my involvement in the Wingfield case, she’d shared Noah Frye’s disapproval of what she saw as the foolhardy risks I sometimes took.

  As a psychiatrist and longtime colleague of mine, she was right, of course. Though her concern wasn’t completely professional.

  Years before, when we met at Ten Oaks—the private psychiatric hospital at which she’s now clinical director—we’d fallen into a brief but passionate affair. I was still dealing with the death of my wife and Nancy had recently divorced her abusive husband. And though our physical relationship ended almost as quickly as it had begun, we’ve remained friends.

  Then, last summer, she became engaged to Dr. Warren Sackheim, a pediatric surgeon at Children’s Hospital. After some surprising reluctance on both our parts, we arranged to have dinner so that Warren and I could meet.

  It went fine, especially since it was immediately apparent that Nancy hadn’t shared all the details of our prior relationship with her fiance. Warren himself turned out to be okay, too, if you like smart, articulate guys who’ve dedicated their careers to saving children’s lives. He also knew a lot about wine. And loved the Steelers almost as much as I did.

  Now, still sitting behind the wheel, I debated whether to return her call and subject myself to another of her stern lectures about my self-destructive impulses. Then I remembered she’d told me right before Christmas about a ski trip up at Seven Springs that she and Warren were planning for the holiday break. As a kind of prewedding honeymoon.

  Given the past weeks’ heavy storms, the resort’s slopes were sure to be amply layered with new snow. And she’d sworn to keep her iPad and laptop at home, and only use her cell phone to check for clinic emergencies.

  Knowing Nancy wanted the trip to be a real romantic getaway, I guessed she also hadn’t paid much attention to the news. Until now.

  Regardless, I didn’t have the stomach to call her back. Not when the image of Claire Cobb zipped up in a body bag still burned before my eyes.

  Besides, Nancy was getting on with her life, and it was best I let her keep doing so.

  ***

  “This one’s on the house, Danny.” With an exaggerated flourish, Noah put a draft Iron City on the bar in front of me. Gave me a bearded grin. “I hear havin’ a death wish really works up a guy’s thirst.”

  I grimaced, but gratefully lifted the foaming mug to my lips. It was my third beer in twenty minutes.

  “I take it you saw the news?”

  “Who didn’t? It’s all over the tube. Ya know, for such a smart guy, you’re a real idiot sometimes.”

  “So people keep telling me.”

  “Maybe you oughtta listen.” He leaned across the bar, massive forearms crossed. “I’m supposed to be the crazy one, remember? You keep chasin’ bad guys down dark alleys and they’ll put you on meds. And not the fun kind.”

  “Might not be a bad idea.” I looked at the brew in my hand. “Though for now, I’m happy to get hammered.”

  Noah sighed, clearly disgusted. He glanced up and down the bar, making sure the few other customers were too wrapped up in their own dramas to pay us much attention.

  With the temperature outside at zero, and midnight having come and gone, the saloon was pretty quiet. Especially now that the jazz trio had played their last set and departed.

  “Look, man,” Noah said carefully, “I know you feel bad about that lady attorney gettin’ killed. Who wouldn’t? She sounds like good people. They’ve been runnin’ her picture and life story all night long on the news. Why the hell you think I turned the damn set off? I didn’t wanna hear about it any more.”

  “Feeling bad about it isn’t a crime. In fact…” I took a long pull of my beer, draining it. “In my clinical opinion, it’s appropriate.”

  Noah frowned. “Christ, you guys love that goddam word. Well, maybe feelin’ bad is ‘appropriate,’ but self-pity isn’t. It’s bullshit. And that’s my clinical opinion.”

  “Yeah?” I tapped my empty mug on the counter. He ignored me, and leaned in further.

  “Yeah. It’s bullshit. And I oughtta know. I used to be the poster child for self-pity. They coulda thrown a telethon for my sorry ass. But now, thanks to therapists like you, and my sweetie Charlene, and a fuck-load o’ meds, I ain’t like that no more. I’m just your garden variety paranoid schizophrenic. And the good news is, I don’t feel too bad for myself about it anymore.”

  “Glad to hear it. Now, about that refill…”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I mean it, Danny. Why don’tcha stop pissin’ and moanin’ and go do that thing you always do? Help the cops get the bastard who killed the lady. Nail him before he can hurt anyone else.”

  I paused. Looked down at the empty mug.

  “I think my crime-busting days are over, Noah.”

  “Like hell. Before you know it, you’ll be on the news again. Talkin’ to some hot anchor babe.”

  “Right.”

  “Trust me, man. Gonna happen. But, listen, next time you’re on the tube…” Voice lowered again. “Two words: Grecian Formula. And I say this with love.”

  He tilted his head, eying me, waiting to see if I’d smile. So I did. I figured, why not make the guy happy? He was trying his best.

  “You’re a good friend, Noah.”

  “Damn right I am.”
/>
  “Now be a great friend and bring me a Jack Daniels. Straight. The beer isn’t cutting it.”

  And it wasn’t. Because I could still see Claire Cobb’s face in my mind, still hear her last words as she died in my arms. Just as I still felt the dull ache of remorse, the numbing pain of loss. I needed something strong enough to change that. To obliterate the hurt and anger.

  Though I knew better, I wanted whatever it would take not to feel anything at all.

  Noah waved his hand in irritation, or else maybe just surrender, and shuffled down the bar to get my drink. At the same time, I heard the front door open. Felt the frigid breath of the night raise prickles on the back of my neck, making me turn. It was Eleanor Lowrey.

  I held out a stool for her as she joined me at the bar, pulling off her overcoat. Even in the saloon’s dim amber light I could see the fatigue etched on her face.

  “Geez, Danny, looks like you started without me.”

  “If you hurry, you can catch up.”

  “My plan exactly.”

  When Noah returned with my drink, I ordered one for Eleanor as well.

  “Make it a double, Noah.” She rubbed her temples.

  “Bad news?” I asked.

  “Is there any other kind? The mayor’s still awake, which is never a good sign. That means he’s chewing out the chief as we speak. I also hear he phoned District Attorney Sinclair up in Boston. Wants him back here ASAP.”

  “What about Neal Alcott?”

  “Apparently, he’s getting torn a new one by the director. Who just got reamed himself by Ohio’s governor.”

  “Makes sense. Though Claire Cobb and Judge Loftus were killed here, all four victims—including the eyewitness, Vincent Beck—were Ohio residents.”

  “Right. And the governor is an old crony of the president. So you can imagine the heat coming down on the bureau. Agent Reese confided in me that there’s a rumor Alcott might be replaced.”

  “I’m not surprised.” And I wasn’t.

  Our drinks came, and we drank in a subdued, somber silence. Not necessarily a bad thing. Given our shared levels of stress, grief, and fatigue, it was almost a relief. Like two fellow soldiers in a foxhole, after the most recent battle. Gathering strength for the next one.

  We stayed there till last call, going over elements of the case in murmured half-sentences. Eleanor also shared, between succeeding rounds of Scotch, more details of her brother’s struggle with addiction. Her family’s mixed, often unsupportive reaction. The toll this divided response had taken on everyone, especially her mother.

  “I think you’re caught up,” I said finally, watching her roll her empty shot glass between elegant fingers.

  “Only ’cause you let me, you big softie. You dogged it the last couple rounds.”

  She’d seriously slurred her words. Maybe I had, too. At this point, I wasn’t exactly sure.

  No question, we’d both had too much to drink. I swear I could feel the room tilting.

  “I’ll have Noah call us each a cab, okay?”

  “No.” She didn’t look at me. “Just one. To my place.”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  It wasn’t as I’d imagined it.

  I’d thought it would happen unexpectedly. In some heated, careless moment. That the sex would be sudden, unthinking, explosive.

  With plenty of mutual regret after the fact. Not for the act itself, but for the problems it inevitably presented. The lines now forever crossed. The effect it would have on our professional relationship.

  Two competent adults who should’ve known better. Now regrettably facing the consequences.

  But that’s not the way it happened.

  ***

  Leaning against the doorway to her apartment, Eleanor apologized as she fumbled for her keys. I stood just behind her, hands on her shoulders. Reassuring her that she had nothing to apologize for.

  We hadn’t sobered up much on the cab ride from Noah’s to her apartment building on the South Side. I still felt a potent, serious buzz from the drinks. More than that, I welcomed it. Wanted my thoughts to be blurred, unfocused.

  No sooner had Eleanor turned the key in the lock than a low growl came through the door.

  “Luther?” I asked.

  She smiled and nodded.

  “Let me go in first and lock him in the second bedroom. Unless you want to be a late-night snack.”

  “I like your idea better.”

  Eleanor slipped inside the darkened apartment and quickly shut the door again. My ear against the polished wood, I could just make out her warm, affectionate murmurs to her Doberman. Followed by footsteps and the muffled sound of a door within the apartment softly closing.

  I stepped back as she re-opened the front door.

  “All secured.” She extended her palm behind her, welcoming me in.

  Her gesture had been slow, deliberate. As was my slow nod in response. There was a curious formality to the way we interacted now. Diffident, mannered. As if to bely the mind-numbing, incautious effects of the alcohol.

  She led me carefully through the dimly-lit front room, a single table lamp its only illumination. I stumbled once, slightly, before managing to right myself against the edge of a wall-length cherrywood bookcase. She went on into the room, while I let my eyes grow accustomed to the dimness.

  Her apartment was simply but tastefully furnished, and not as cooly functional as I might have guessed. Perhaps because the no-nonsense demeanor she displayed on the job conflicted with the number of homemade crafts items placed carefully about. Even in that shadowed room, I could make out the needlepoint throw pillow resting on a corner chair. For some reason, I knew instinctively that her mother had made it for her.

  At the far end of the room, a wide sofa stood before a rough-stoned fireplace. Atop the marble mantlepiece were photos of family and friends, including one unlikely shot of Sergeant Harry Polk, in a Pirates t-shirt and baggy shorts, tossing a Frisbee at some departmental picnic. There was also a pride-of-place mounted photo of Eleanor as a rookie cop, after having just been sworn in.

  I found a seat on the sofa and watched as she crouched in front of the fireplace. Neither one of us had removed our coats.

  Nor spoken, since we’d entered the room.

  It took a few minutes for her to get a fire going, but soon the modest flames were sending angled shadows scurrying around the pale walls.

  Eleanor rose, her back still toward me. Then she turned, at the same time unbuttoning her coat.

  “Can I make you a drink?” she asked.

  I shook my head.

  “Good,” she said. And smiled again.

  She stood, unmoving, and let her coat fall to the floor. Instinctively, I reached to catch it. Missed.

  “Leave it, okay? Leave all of it.”

  I eased myself back against the sofa cushions as she slowly peeled her long-sleeved sweater up and over her head. It too dropped to the floor. I let it.

  Backlit by the flickering fire, she reached behind her and undid her bra. Freeing her full breasts.

  I must have opened my mouth to speak, for her finger went to her lips. I stayed silent.

  Slowly, unself-consciously, she stepped out of her boots and jeans. Wholly naked. Smooth black skin shimmering as she moved toward me. Reached out her hand for mine. I took it. Stood. Suddenly indifferent to any hurts, pains.

  I watched, stunned by alcohol and arousal, as she closed her eyes. Just let herself breathe deeply, in and out. The mounds of her breasts rising and falling. The heat from the fire behind her enveloping us. Embracing us in its warm, insistent glow.

  Then, finally, her eyes opened.

  “Now,” she said.

  ***

  I loved how sinuously, how achingly slowly her body moved under my touch. We were both naked now, on the floor in front of t
he fire, Eleanor having undressed me as deliberately as she had herself.

  In the dimness of firelight, we explored each other’s bodies with our fingers, our tongues. A sweet, unhurried hunger. Until I drew my hand up between her thighs, cupped her. Felt the moist heat of her.

  Then I was inside her, feeling the swell of her breasts against my chest. The press of her nipples. Her strong arms encircling me.

  Without a word, we found a slow, undulating rhythm that was all movement and breath and yearning. As though whatever our private griefs, our sorrows, our nameless needs, they fused into one. A hallowed, shared passion.

  For escape? Release? For each other?

  I didn’t know, or care.

  And then I felt her long, deep shudder beneath me, and I let myself come with her. Let myself dissolve, unravel. Disappear into her as she had into me.

  “Stay inside me,” she whispered.

  I did.

  ***

  It was an hour before dawn. We’d made love again, and lay on our sides, facing each other. I reveled in the feel of her taut belly, of her long thighs entwined with mine. The pure physicality of her.

  She seemed to sense my thoughts. Gave me a knowing, though slightly unfocused, look. A hazy attempt at a leer.

  “Jock sex, Danny. Once you get a taste, you never go back. Or so they tell me.”

  She carelessly brushed her lips against mine.

  I smiled. “You’re not used to drinking, are you?”

  “Is it that obvious? I still feel like I’m…floating. What about you? Are you sober yet?”

  “Not yet. But I’m in no rush.”

  The room was blanketed in darkness. The fire had long since died, leaving only the acrid smell of the embers.

  In these past hours together, she hadn’t just shown me her body, her subtle and compelling sensuality. She’d also given me a rare glimpse into another part of herself. Her wry humor, openness, vulnerability. The part of her that her job, her professionalism, didn’t allow her to expose. That, as a female in a still predominantly male world, she often had to suppress.

  “I want to stay like this forever.” Her voice now plaintive, whisper-soft. “Just as we are. But we can’t.”