Night Terrors

by Dennis Palumbo

  He had perhaps a minute more to live. Maybe not even that. But it was enough time for him to whisper something in my ear.

  Chapter Fifty-two

  As I’d expected, Harve Randall died at the scene from his wounds. As I’d hoped, Lyle Barnes didn’t.

  Though he remained unconscious throughout the entire ambulance ride to Pittsburgh Memorial. Secured in a gurney, his face ashen, he didn’t respond as the stoic EMT worked on him.

  “How bad?”

  I sat opposite in the cramped compartment, hanging on to a ceiling strap as the ambulance raced west to town. Eleanor sat next to me.

  “Bad enough.” The EMT had finished bandaging Barnes’ wounds and was running an IV drip. “But his vitals are good. I think he’ll make it.”

  Eleanor exhaled deeply. “Thank God. Sure looked bad.”

  I turned to her. “How about you?”

  “Just sore. All over.”

  I put my arm around her. “I can relate to that. But it’s best to let them check you out, too. You took a helluva fall in that place.”

  She held a Styrofoam cup of hot coffee in both hands. Put it to her lips.

  “The real pain comes later,” she said. “The IA review. Officer-involved shooting.”

  “You kidding? They’ll probably give you a medal.”

  Which, in fact, they did.

  ***

  From the moment Randall died, his fist still clutching my coat, everything seemed to happen at once. Cops from two different jurisdictions swarmed the rooftop, guns drawn, flashlights like miniature suns threading the darkness.

  Eleanor and I stood together, off to one side, as she made her initial report to the detective in charge. Then came the EMT team, attending first to Barnes, then to Eleanor and me. Then the medical examiner, pronouncing on Randall. And the crime scene unit. A cacophony of hard voices, boots scraping the cindered tar, equipment bags snapping open and then shut. The controlled, practiced chaos of veteran police personnel working a crime scene.

  The last thing I remember, as Eleanor and I followed behind Barnes on his stretcher, was the sight of Harve Randall being zipped into a body bag.

  Now, in the sudden stillness of the ambulance, as Eleanor rested her head on my shoulder and the EMT busily wrote in his chart, I found myself staring down at Lyle Barnes. FBI, retired. Features hidden behind an oxygen mask. Except for those steely, knowing eyes, now closed in slumber. For the first time, I realized, in too many days to count.

  ***

  Sunday brought a welcomed rise in temperature, along with what I imagined was a collective sigh of relief from the entire city. One I was happy to share.

  I’d spent the morning giving my statement about the previous night’s events to the cops, then been driven home.

  After a long shower, I somewhat clumsily retaped my ribs and rebandaged my hands. Then threw on some sweats, made a huge pot of coffee, and settled down in front of the tube. Ready for the media circus to begin. I wasn’t disappointed.

  Randall’s death at the hands of a Pittsburgh PD detective led every newscast and, I presumed, every online report. District Attorney Leland Sinclair and Chief Logan held a joint press conference at noon, taking turns congratulating each other on the successful conclusion to the case. Not surprisingly, no representative of the FBI shared the podium.

  “Harve Randall’s reign of terror has ended,” Sinclair pronounced. “Justice has been done.”

  Chief Logan then expressed his sincere admiration for Detective Eleanor Lowrey, whose brave actions would undoubtably earn her a special commendation.

  Follow-up news stories presented details of Harve Randall’s life, at least what little was known so far. As well as biographical recaps of his murdered victims, including their unusual mutual connection to a little-known serial killer named John Jessup.

  The final story featured video of the FBI’s Deputy Director, announcing that the remaining people presumed to have been on Randall’s hitlist were being released from the bureau’s safehouse. And that all concerned were relieved to be out of danger, and looking forward to returning to their regular routines.

  Especially ADA Dave Parnelli, I thought. I bet he couldn’t wait to get back to town and make his way to the nearest bar.

  Notable for its absence was any mention of Randall’s first victim, Wheeling businessman Ed Meachem. My guess was, in response to what I’d told Lieutenant Biegler this morning, that crime was still being investigated, in cooperation with Wheeling PD. Perhaps nothing would move forward until Henry Stiles isolated Randall’s DNA, and it was compared to that of Meachem.

  Meanwhile, tomorrow was Monday, and I was looking forward to getting back to work. Practicing therapy. Living my real life.

  I smiled at the comforting image, even though I knew damned well that this wasn’t likely to happen. Not yet, anyway.

  Not once I’d made the lone call I’d been dreading since I first got home.

  ***

  I made myself a ham and swiss on rye and sat at the kitchen table. Coffee and a sandwich. My old man’s favorite meal, any time of the day. Until the sun went down and the Jim Beam came out.

  Jesus, my dad the beat cop. What he’d make of me, of how I’d turned out, I couldn’t begin to guess.

  Thankfully, my cell rang just then, preventing my thoughts from following their customary slide into melancholy. At least where my late father was concerned.

  I checked the phone display. Noah Frye.

  “Hey, Danny, I see you took my advice and got back into the crime-bustin’ business.”

  “Not this time, Noah. I was more the innocent bystander. Detective Lowrey took Randall down.”

  “Whatever. You were there and the crazy bastard is dead. Good enough for me. Next time you come in, drinks are on the house.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  “But stay away from Charlene, okay? She’s really pissed that you risked your life again, playin’ hero. I mean, hell, she’s givin’ me all kinds o’ shit about it, and I wasn’t even there.”

  “Things are tough all over, Noah.”

  He snorted. “That the kinda stuff you say to your patients? If so, dude, you’re stealin’ their money.”

  My cell beeped as another call came in.

  “Gotta go.” I clicked over to the other line. Eleanor.

  “They just released me from the hospital, Danny. I’m fine. Just like I thought.”

  “That’s great, El.”

  “And guess who came by to check on me? Chief Logan. They’re giving me a commendation.”

  “You’ve earned it.”

  “Maybe. Though, to be fair, I oughtta share it with you.”

  “Bullshit. I’m really happy for you.”

  Her voice grew quiet, pensive. “Listen, Danny…I figured, since the chief was there, it was a good time to ask for a leave of absence. Logan signed off on it right away. He said I definitely deserved some R and R.”

  “How long?”

  “I asked for six months. And I got it.”

  I paused, feeling an odd tightness in my chest.

  “My mom needs my help, Danny. You know that. With my brother Teddy and his kids. This is a rough time.”

  “I know.”

  “But I’ll stay in touch. I promise.”

  We shared a long, awkward beat of silence.

  “Take care of yourself, Eleanor.”

  “You, too, Danny.”

  We hung up.

  ***

  I spent the rest of the afternoon fielding more phone calls. The first was from Stu Biegler, asking me to come down to the Old County Building the next morning for more questions.

  “Better figure on being available another day or two,” the lieutenant said importantly. “I know Alcott wants a follow-up, too.”

  “You mean I get
to hang out with both you and Agent Alcott? Gee, that sounds like fun.”

  He grunted. “Just make sure you’re here early.”

  “Right. By the way, how’s Harry Polk?”

  “Doing fine, last I heard. Should be back at work in a couple weeks.”

  “Tell him I send my best.”

  “Screw you, Rinaldi. Tell him yourself.” Click.

  The next dozen calls came from various news outlets. Local, national. Print, radio, TV. My landline here as well as my office phone. I let the answering machine and my voice mail take them all.

  Then, finally, as I nursed a beer out on the deck and watched the sunlight fade over the Three Rivers, my cell rang. Angie Villanova. The call I’d been waiting for.

  “Danny, you watchin’ the news?”

  “Kinda burned out on it. What’s up?”

  “They just reported that Harve Randall was also responsible for Ed Meachem’s death. The Wheeling DA confirmed the DNA match with Meachem. They’re father and son. You were right, Danny!”

  “Still, that doesn’t prove Randall killed him.”

  “Maybe not, but I just heard from Maggie Currim. She says the DA dropped the charges against her son Wes.”

  “You mean they finally believed Maggie about Wes being with her that night?”

  “Not only that, but when Wes was told about Randall’s death, he broke down and admitted everything. That it was Randall who’d really killed Meachem, and that he’d forced Wes to take the fall for it. Maggie says Wes was actually weeping with relief.”

  “I’ll bet he was.”

  “One last thing. They’re releasing Wes from prison tomorrow afternoon. Takes that long to process out a county prisoner down there, I guess. Anyway, Maggie’s so grateful, she wants you to be there when it happens. So what do ya say? I figure you owe her for doubtin’ her story.”

  “Only at first.”

  “Big deal. What do ya want, a parade? I told ya I had a good feelin’ about her.”

  “And you were right. Tell Maggie I’ll be there. That I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Chapter Fifty-three

  “Why is it taking so long?”

  Maggie Currim, wearing a new winter coat and with more color in her cheeks than I’d seen before, tapped her foot.

  “I’m sure there’s a ton of paperwork, Maggie.”

  We were sitting side by side in the waiting area of the Marshall County Prison, whose walls glowed a pale green under the hanging fluorescents. We occupied the only sofa in the sterile room. A bland-looking prison official sat on one of the three folding chairs, while an equally bland desk officer manned a cluttered cubicle.

  Wes Currim’s two older brothers were conspicuous by their absence.

  “They’re both so busy with the business,” Maggie had explained earlier. “It’s a Monday, after all.”

  She’d also explained that she wanted to greet Wes herself, privately, when he came through the cell block door. Before they went out to the front of the prison, where his attorney, Willard Hansen—along with a crowd of reporters and TV news crews—waited. Apparently, Hansen had orchestrated Wes’ release into a pretty impressive media event.

  I’d spent my day somewhat differently, giving repeated accounts of the past two weeks to both Pittsburgh PD and the FBI. Though I spoke with a Bureau agent I’d never met before. When I asked about Neal Alcott, I was told he’d been called suddenly to Quantico. I figured his superiors weren’t too happy that it was a lowly Pittsburgh cop, and not the bureau, that had taken down Harve Randall.

  After giving my statements, I drove a second rental car down here to Wheeling. But not before checking in with the auto repair place. The service manager told me on the phone that he didn’t have an estimate yet for my Mustang, but assured me he’d do everything possible to keep costs down. Which didn’t sound good.

  Yet now, sitting next to Maggie Currim, aware of her palpable anxiety, I realized how little such things mattered. Not when compared to what was about to happen in this room.

  I’d no sooner had that thought when the door to the cell block swung open. Wes Currim, in street clothes once more, was escorted out by a guard.

  “Mom!”

  Wes was halfway across the floor by the time Maggie got to her feet. Both bursting into tears, mother and son hugged each other fiercely. Even the desk officer’s eyebrows went up. Their impassioned embrace was probably not an everyday occurrence around here.

  I stood as well, but stayed where I was. Waiting.

  Maggie Currim and her son finally stepped apart, though she did so reluctantly. Keeping her hands still on her son’s slender arms. Rubbing them up and down, as though to confirm the evidence of her own eyes. That he was really here, really free.

  It was then that the outer door, on the far side of the room, opened. Chief Avery Block, Wheeling PD, his face a grim mask, strode in. Followed by two uniforms, each with his hand on his holstered gun.

  Maggie blinked over at the Chief, surprised. Arms dropping to her sides.

  Block ignored her and approached Wes.

  “Chief Block…” Wes tried on a grin. “You came by to see me outta here?”

  Block’s voice was as cold as the deep winter’s chill.

  “We know, Wes. We found the bodies.”

  “What?” Wes Currim blanched.

  His mother struggled to find words.

  “Bodies…? What do you mean—?”

  I came over then, gently took her hands in mine.

  “I’m so sorry, Maggie. I didn’t know for sure till Chief Block came through that door. It meant he’d found them. Right where Harve Randall said they’d be.”

  “I…I don’t understand…”

  Wes Currim shrank back against the cell block door.

  “Don’t listen to him, Mom! He don’t know nothin’—”

  But Maggie kept her gaze on mine. “What bodies…?”

  I took a breath.

  “Your husband Jack. And the girl he ran away with. Lily Greer. Wes killed them, and buried them in the yard behind his uncle’s house. That’s why they were never found. Why no one knew where they’d gone.”

  Her mouth sagged open. She aged a decade in the space of a moment, right before my eyes.

  “No…that can’t be…”

  “Mom!” Wes spit out the word, half cry, half rage. Then looked wildly about, suddenly trapped. Desperate for a way out. But there wasn’t any.

  “Mom, please!” he shouted again, as the two Wheeling officers closed in on him. In moments, his hands had been cuffed behind his back.

  Maggie Currim could hardly stand, weaving as though about to faint. I glanced quickly at Chief Block, who stepped over and helped me get her to the sofa.

  Block gave her a brief, pitying look, then turned his somber eyes on me.

  “I couldn’t believe it when you called me, Doc. But Jack and the Greer girl were right where you said they’d be. In the back yard, near the south fence post. Five, six feet down.”

  “Just like Randall told me. When he was dying. He said I was wrong about how he got Wes to take the blame for Meachem. He didn’t threaten to kill Maggie. He threatened to tell her that Wes had killed her husband.”

  “But how did Randall know?”

  “He said he’d been tailing Wes in his truck a couple years back, figuring he was on a drug run. Instead, Wes drove out to the old farmhouse, where Randall saw him take two bodies from the back of the truck. Randall knew who they were, of course. Everybody in town knew that Jack Currim had run off with his secretary. But Randall didn’t do a thing. Just watched Wes get a shovel and bury them near the fence post.”

  Block scratched his bulbous nose.

  “But why?”

  “Randall died before he could say any more. I’d guess he wanted to have something on
Wes. Something he could use if he ever needed a fall guy.”

  I turned to Wes Currim, who’d slumped a bit in the firm grip of his two captors. “Am I right?”

  He nodded miserably.

  “Harve Randall…that prick…one day last month, outta the blue, he pulls up in that piece o’ shit pickup of his…”

  I knew it well, having seen it in my rear view mirror when Randall had run me off the road.

  “Anyway, Harve says he got some guy in the back, guy named Meachem he snatched from a parking lot and knocked out. Says he needs my help. I tell him to go fuck himself, but then he says he knows what I did. Where I planted the bodies. And that he’d tell my mother everything.”

  At this, Maggie Currim roused herself. Looked up from her seat at her youngest son. Staring in wonderment, as though she’d never seen him before.

  “But, Wesley…how could you? Jack was your father…”

  “He was a fucking shit, Mom! And you know it! Look how he treated you all those years. Then he takes off with that skanky bitch…” His voice trailed off.

  “How’d it go down, Wes?” Chief Block asked.

  “I overheard my old man tell Mom about him and Lily. Though I suspected he’d been cheatin’ on her for weeks. Anyway, it was just dumb luck that I spotted the two of ’em the next day. Comin’ outta City Hall…”

  “Where Lily had just applied for a passport,” I said. “I assume Jack already had one.”

  Wes threw me a surly glance. “Yeah. From when he took that one business trip to Tokyo, years ago. Got some deal on auto parts and hadda go himself.”

  The chief spoke again. “Is that when you grabbed them, Wes? Outside City Hall?”

  “Nah. I followed ’em to some shitty motel, way outta town. Place was practically empty, that time o’ day. I got my rifle outta my truck, knocked on the door of their room. Marched ’em outside, around back. Bang-bang, they’re dead. Nobody hears nothin’. Then I load ’em in the truck and head out to my uncle’s place. Who the fuck figures Randall sees me, follows me?…I mean, fuck, right?”

  I collected my thoughts. This explained why Lily Greer had never returned to collect her passport. She was dead. Funny, I’d been wrong about Jack and Lily. They had decided to go abroad, maybe permanently. The awful irony was what I’d been right about. The two had indeed never left US soil. They’d been buried beneath it.