Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  Gasping in pain, I grabbed awkwardly at branches with my bandaged hands to arrest my rolling fall. My feet twisted and turned beneath me, trying to find purchase in the days-old snow and frozen earth. But the physics were against me. The combination of gravity, the sharp angle of the sloping hill, and the velocity of my descent from the deck added up to a hurtling, remorseless momentum.

  If I didn’t stop myself soon, I’d crash through the tree line and go sprawling into empty space. Until I hit the pavement far below, at the foot of the mountain.

  Luckily, I managed to reach out finally and wrap one arm around a thick, low-hanging branch. Though the sudden, agonizing halt nearly pulled my shoulder out of its socket. My feet still scraping on the slick ground, the branch trembled under my weight. Old snow, shaken loose from the impact, fell in chunks from the foliage above.

  My arm wracked with pain, I managed to cling to the branch and right myself on the treacherous slope. Gulping mouthfuls of frigid air, I squinted back up through the trees and saw Reese and Zarnicki picking their way carefully along a ridge just below the lip of the hill. They’d each pocketed their weapons, freeing their hands to clutch at bushes and jutting rocks, trying to maintain their balance on the slanted hillside.

  I let go of the branch. Though I feared I’d dislocated my shoulder, at least I had a big lead on them.

  Gathering myself, I moved carefully in a more or less horizontal line through the trees. Based on what I’d seen from the deck, Lyle Barnes was traversing the slope at approximately this same level, and was about a hundred yards ahead of me. But I couldn’t risk calling out to him. The last thing I wanted to do was pinpoint his location to the pursuing agents above me.

  Especially since my only goal, once Barnes had been spotted in the trees, was to get to him first. He was sleep deprived, mentally and physically spent, and acting completely on instinct. Flight or fight. And now he wasn’t just in hiding from the bureau, he was a murder suspect. A wanted fugitive, with armed, pissed-off agents on his tail.

  I paused for a moment, catching my breath, and saw that a patch of dazzlng sunlight indicated a broad opening in the trees up ahead. From there, I thought, maybe I could get a bead on Barnes’ location.

  Scrambling along the hillside, pushing my way through spindly branches and dense foliage, stumbling over rocks half-buried in the snow, I made my slow, methodical way toward the sunlit clearing. It seemed to take forever, though it was probably more like ten minutes.

  But finally, as though emerging from an enchanted forest in a fairy tale, I stepped onto a sloped, ice-covered patch of grass and crumbled rock over which the tree canapy had parted. Even the angle of the ground was less severe, more a gentle hillock stretching toward where the treeline resumed below.

  I kept my feet wide apart to anchor myself and turned first one way, then the other. Not even daring to breathe, I strained to hear any nearby sounds. Any telltale sign that Barnes had passed this same way, and was still close.

  Just then, I heard two things. The sharp crack of a tree branch snapping and the hoarse, whispered curse of the man who’d stepped on it. Lyle Barnes. Not thirty feet away, on the other side of the wintry knoll, in a thatch of foliage. I could make out his lean frame, twisting and turning as he disentangled himself from a web of branches.

  Fearing that Reese and Zarnicki were soon to stumble into the clearing, I moved quickly, in a crouch, toward the far bank of trees. I reached it just as Barnes was pulling himself awkwardly from a slush-filled ditch.When he heard my own footsteps on the crinkling, frozen grass, he looked up at me with a pained expression.

  Shoving aside a tangle of thin, ice-sheened branches, he hobbled over the few feet between us. His body bent, skin sickly pale, hair unkempt and mud-spattered.

  “I think I sprained my ankle,” he said matter-of-factly. He tried putting weight on it, and winced.

  “Well, I think I dislocated my shoulder.”

  “From the way you’re holding it, yeah. Maybe.”

  “Regardless, it’s a good thing I found you.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I wanted to stop you before you became a fugitive-at-large. And a target for itchy trigger fingers.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You’re a wanted man, Lyle. The bureau thinks you’re the shooter.”

  “They think what?…”

  The exhausted, bruised, and disheveled agent, clothes torn and covered with damp earth, just stared at me. In wonderment. Disbelief. And then, finally, defeat.

  “The Bard was right, Doc.” Letting out a long, weary breath. “Life really is a tale told by an idiot…”

  Then, to my surprise, he abruptly sat down on the frozen grass. Knees up, arms draped loosely across them. As casual as if sitting on a blanket in the park, waiting for the fireworks to start.

  I regarded him. “How’s your ankle?”

  “Hurts like hell. How’s your arm?”

  “Ditto.”

  A long, thick beat of silence.

  “So, Doc,” he said at last. “Now that we have a moment, how would you say our therapy’s going so far?”

  “I’d have to consult my notes.”

  He managed a wan smile. “Yeah, well, if you really want to understand me, you oughtta look up a poem by Jack Gilbert. That guy I mentioned before? It’s called ‘The Abandoned Valley.’”

  “I’ll try to remember.”

  His eyes fell to the scuffed, smudged dress shoes on his feet. One of the pair was missing its tongue.

  “By the way, I borrowed these shoes from your closet before I went out the bedroom window. They’re pretty nice. Are they new?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Another, broader smile. “I’m gonna miss you, Doc.”

  “Don’t worry, Lyle. I’m not going anywhere.” Wincing somewhat myself, I gingerly took a seat beside him in the wet dirt. “At least, not for the moment.”

  He nodded, and we sat in an odd, companionable silence in the light of the cold afternoon sun.

  Which is how, only a short time later, Agents Reese and Zarnicki, guns aimed with clear intent, found us.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Two hours later, Lyle Barnes and I were sitting side by side at a conference room table in the Federal Building.

  Across from us, Special Agent Neal Alcott was arranging a pile of files, evidence envelopes, and sealed plastic bags.

  Behind him, at the rear wall, a disgruntled Agent Zarnicki stood with his arms folded. Making the bulge of his shoulder holster even more obvious.

  After being driven here through heavy midday traffic, Barnes and I were attended by a doctor and nurse summoned from nearby Pittsburgh Memorial. To my surprise, it was the same ER resident who’d treated me earlier. I have to admit, he seemed pretty surprised, too.

  Our wounds were cleaned and tended, bruises wrapped in bandages. Thankfully, I hadn’t dislocated my shoulder, though the deep scarlet gash under my armpit throbbed sharply. The resident also taped up my ribs.

  Unfortunately, Barnes hadn’t been as lucky. As he’d suspected, he’d suffered a severe ankle sprain, which required that his foot be strapped into an orthopedic boot.

  Finally, we were whisked by elevator up to the top floor, and perp-walked down the corridor to the main conference room. Just as Zarnicki was taking his position against the back wall, Alcott strode in, carrying a small cardboard box. Without a word, he began unloading its contents on the table.

  “Know why you’re here, Agent Barnes?” he said finally, not looking up.

  “You people are stupid enough to think I’m your guy.” Barnes linked his fingers, stretched. “Right?”

  “No, I mean why you’re here, in a conference room, instead of a jail cell?”

  I spoke up. “I think I know. He’s here because you haven’t informed P
ittsburgh PD of his arrest. You’re keeping Biegler and company out of the loop.”

  “That’s right, Dr. Rinaldi. At the request of the director, we’re withholding that information from the police. And the district attorney.”

  He turned to Barnes. “For the moment, at least.”

  “Probably a good move,” Barnes said. “This way, once you realize you’re wrong about me, nobody else has to know what fuck-ups you are. It’ll be our little secret.”

  Alcott reddened. “Watch your goddam mouth, Barnes. If it weren’t for the director, I’d…”

  He let the words die in the air. Then he shifted his attention back to me.

  “I wanted you here, too, so I could get corroboration on some of the facts. We figure you can help plug a few holes we’re still having trouble with.”

  “Am I under arrest, too? If so, I want a lawyer.”

  He shook his head mournfully. “Shit, Doc. Just when I’d started to like you…But, no, you’re not under arrest. For now, we just consider you a person of interest. So you don’t need a lawyer.”

  “But you’ll be sure to tell me when I do?”

  “You’ll be the first to hear about it.”

  I indicated Barnes. “What about Lyle? Shouldn’t he have legal counsel?”

  Alcott swiveled back to the older man. “You’re under arrest, but no charges have been filed. And I want you to consider this more as an interview than an interrogation. Think we can play it that way?”

  Barnes grinned. “I will if you will.”

  I stirred. “Mind if I ask a question, Neal? How did you find out Lyle was at my place?”

  “That’s kinda funny. An old buddy of Agent Barnes at Quantico, guy named Henderson, dropped the dime on him. Volunteered that Barnes had contacted him, asking him for your home address.”

  I gave Barnes a sidelong glance. “So much for having the goods on the guy to keep him quiet…”

  Alcott chuckled. “Oh, that. Yeah, well, Henderson’s wife found out about his regular trips up to Georgetown for a little S and M. Since his secret was out, he figured there was no reason to risk criminal action once Barnes was eventually found. As he knew he would be. So Henderson caved and told us everything. Including the fact that Barnes called him regularly—using your landline phone, Doc—getting updates on the task force investigation.”

  I glared at Barnes. “You used my landline to call this guy from the house? You never mentioned that!”

  He shrugged. “C’mon, Doc. Nobody tells their therapist everything…”

  “Damn it, Lyle…” Rubbing my forehead, at a loss.

  “My bad, okay?” Giving me a mock-contrite look.

  “Barnes picked up a lot of intel that way,” Alcott went on, obviously enjoying the tension between Barnes and me. “Like where the shooter’s potential victims were being held, when they were being moved…”

  “Wait a minute, that’s your evidence?” Barnes stared, fatigued eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s the reason you like me for these shootings? Christ, I always knew you had shit for brains, Alcott, but this is just—”

  That was too much for the other agent. Bristling with sudden anger, he slammed his palm on the table.

  “Cut the crap, Barnes! I’m sick of your attitude, your disrespect, your insubordination. I’m sick of you, period. I don’t care about how you and the goddam director go way back. We have more than enough to bury you, and if you’ll just shut the fuck up for once in your life, I’ll lay it all out for you!”

  At first, Barnes looked taken aback by Alcott’s outburst. Momentarily stunned. Then, with some effort, he squared his shoulders and straightened in his chair. Face unreadable. He’d given the younger agent all the emotional reaction he was going to get.

  For his part, Alcott seemed visibly embarrassed by what he probably felt was a personal lapse. Not in keeping with the Bureau’s storied professionalism, nor his own carefully-built reputation for grace under pressure, for a cool, self-assured demeanor. Eyes dropping to the table, he busied himself arranging papers and files.

  “All right, Alcott,” Barnes said quietly. “If, as you say, this is just an interview, let me see what you have.”

  Keeping his own voice equally reasonable, Alcott began: “First of all, there’s the timeline. The murders of Earl Cranshaw and Judge Loftus occurred prior to our understanding that they were part of a pattern. Prior to our decision to provide protection for those we considered potential targets. In short, both men were already dead by the time we brought you down from Franklin Park and put you up in that motel in Braddock. So you’d certainly had the freedom of movement to carry out those two shootings.”

  He sniffed loudly—obviously still fighting that persistent cold—and withdrew another file from the array before him.

  “Then, at the downtown Marriott, you go out the window and disappear. Apparently, the first thing you did was acquire Dr. Rinaldi’s address and make your way there.”

  He raised skeptical eyes to find mine.

  “Whether the doctor was aware or not that you were hiding there is open to question.”

  “I wasn’t, Neal. I only found out a few hours before you did that Lyle had been secretly living in my house.”

  “Somehow, I find that hard to believe.”

  “That makes two of us, but it’s the truth.”

  “Then why didn’t you contact us the moment you found out about it? Why didn’t you turn him in?”

  I paused. “Good question. I’ll let you know when I have an answer. All I can say is, it seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “Hardly a satisfactory response, Doctor.”

  “Life is full of disappointments, Neal.”

  “Uh-huh. Ya know, you’re not helping yourself much at the moment.”

  Barnes cleared his throat. “Listen, Alcott, the doc here’s tellin’ the truth. He never knew I was squattin’ in his place till early this morning. He wasn’t too happy about it, either, but—”

  Alcott held up his hand. “Not my concern, Agent Barnes. What is relevant is that now you had use of Rinaldi’s house as a base of operations. Which means you were free to continue carrying out your plan.”

  “My plan to kill all these people on the hitlist.”

  “Exactly. Because of your regular calls to your buddy Henderson at Quantico, you knew everything that the task force knew. For example, you knew that Sergeant Harry Polk was slated to interview an eyewitness to the Cranshaw killing. A man named Vincent Beck. So you got yourself to Beck’s place of employment before Polk arrived, and, using a hunting rifle stolen from a gun store, you shot the witness and wounded the sergeant.”

  “And how did I get to Steubenville to do this?”

  “Same M.O. as with Cranshaw and Loftus. You stole a car and later abandoned it.”

  “A car you haven’t found yet, I’m guessing.”

  “Not yet, no. But we will. Just as we now have the stolen panel truck you used to drive up alongside the car Claire Cobb was in, when we left that motel in Wilkinsburg. You knew she was scheduled to be taken to Sewickley, you even knew when. So you acted quickly to prevent it.”

  The whole time Alcott was speaking, I was watching Lyle Barnes. The toll his long days and nights of sleeplessness was taking on him had grown even more obvious. His pale, sunken cheeks. Moist, half-closed eyes. The caffeine-fueled hand tremors, now markedly worse. Not to mention the battering his body took from the jump from my bedroom window and his slog through the woods.

  Given how stiff and sore I felt, how difficult I found even the slightest movement, I couldn’t begin to imagine the sheer physical pain he was in. I was amazed, noting the effort it was taking now to keep himself upright in his chair, that he hadn’t already passed out.

  “You realize,” I said to Alcott, “that this so-called timeline would hold true for literally everyo
ne who wasn’t under FBI sequestration during the period involved. To say the evidence is circumstantial doesn’t even begin to describe how ludicrous it is.”

  “Really, Dr. Rinaldi? So you’re practicing law now?”

  “No. But I know we haven’t perfected cloning yet. Which is the only way Lyle Barnes could’ve taken a shot at Claire Cobb outside her office in Cleveland. Remember, when the shooter made his first attempt on her life, Lyle had already been put under FBI protection. In fact, when we first learned about it, he was standing in the same room with you and me.”

  I smiled at the retired profiler.

  “I know he’s a clever son-of-a-bitch, but even Agent Barnes can’t be in two places at once.”

  Alcott looked unperturbed.

  “Like I said, we still have holes to plug. Besides, he could be working with an accomplice.”

  “Nice reach, Alcott. But it doesn’t stand up and you know it.”

  “Maybe not. But then there’s this…”

  I’d thought that Alcott had emptied his little cardboard box, but I was wrong. With a meaningful look at Barnes, he reached in and withdrew a plastic envelope. Placed it carefully on the table, almost exactly centered between himself and the older agent.

  Inside the envelope was a gun. A revolver, squat and ugly within its transparent sheath.

  “Recognize this, Agent Barnes?” Alcott folded his hands before him, as though in prayer. “It’s a Taurus 44M Tracker.”

  “Same make as the shooter’s.”

  “That’s because it is the shooter’s. It’s the murder weapon, and it was found at your house.”

  Sitting next to me, I heard Barnes draw in a breath.

  I stared down at the gun. “Are you serious, Alcott?”

  A brisk nod. “It’s the killer’s gun, all right. No prints, of course, but ballistics matched it to the bullets that killed all three victims—Cranshaw, Loftus, and Claire. As you know, Steubenville PD recovered the rifle used to kill Vincent Beck. The one time the shooter was forced to improvise.”