Night Terrors
Page 33
Maggie had said nothing during Wes’ entire narrative. She merely sat, as I’d seen her do before, with her hands on her lap, fingers twisting convulsively.
Her son, caught up in telling his story, seemed not to have noticed. Until then. Restrained by officers on either side, he leaned toward her.
“Don’t you see, Mom? I couldn’t let ’em get away with it. I couldn’t let him do that to you!”
“But I loved your father, with all my heart. Despite everything, I loved him…You knew that!”
“Yeah…just like I knew you’d never forgive me if you found out what I did. Harve knew it, too. Knew I’d do anything to keep you from findin’ out. Even go to prison for a crime I didn’t commit. Even that…” Voice choked.
Fresh tears welling in his eyes. “As long as it meant you still loved me…that you’d never have a reason to hate me instead…”
He bent lower, face near to hers. And wept.
His mother took a long time before answering. “I…I couldn’t hate you, Wesley. But I’m afraid you may be right. I don’t know if I can ever forgive you…”
Maggie averted her eyes, as though to hide from him her own agony. Her nameless grief.
For his part, Wes drew himself up, face gone flat, expressionless. Seemingly oblivious now to the officers guarding him. Even of the cuffs binding his arms behind his back.
The leaden silence was broken by Chief Block, who noisily cleared his throat.
“Who cut up Ed Meachem, Wes? That was one goddam nasty piece o’ work. Was that you?”
“No.” His voice now strangely calm, sure. “Harve did that. Up at the house, in the kitchen. Just as Meachem was comin’ to, Harve took a big ol’ carving knife and hacked him to pieces. Looked like he was enjoyin’ himself, too.”
A shrug. “Then he stuck the knife in his belt and we high-tailed it back to town. And then I drove over to my mom’s to help her clean out the attic. Just like I promised. I’m a good son, Chief. Ask anybody.”
Block merely stared at him. “Jesus Christ.”
Sighing, he took a stick of nicotine gum from his coat pocket and slowly unwrapped it. Popped it in his mouth. Then he nodded to his officers, and they began leading Wes Currim out of the room.
I stopped them, my hand gripping Wes’ shoulder. I had to ask.
“What about Meachem’s head, Wes? Whose idea was it to put it on the snowman?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Something strange, unsettling. Then his face broke into a grotesque grin.
“It was mine, Doc. Like I told ya before. Not even the Handyman ever did shit like that. The thing with the head…That was all mine.”
Wes was still smiling about it as they led him away.
Chapter Fifty-four
Lyle Barnes was looking better. He’d been moved from ICU, and now had a private room at Pittsburgh Memorial.
“The bureau has a great health plan,” he’d explained soon after I showed up. It was midafternoon, three days later, and a blinding sun bathed the spacious room with cool, unstained light.
Though hampered by a tangle of wires and tubes, he animatedly discussed his prognosis, which, he assured me, was good, despite the incompetence of his doctors.
“When I get outta here, I’m gonna research surgical protocols. No way my gut should still hurt this bad.”
“Lyle, as your therapist, I have to tell you: You’re an idiot. You took a bullet at close range, the surgery was a success, and you’re lucky to be alive. Deal with it.”
He frowned, shifting position under the bedsheets. He moved with obvious discomfort, but his face had resumed a reasonably human pallor. And his eyes were clear.
“I heard about that kid in Wheeling. Wes Currim. Some weird stuff you get yourself mixed up in, son.”
“Not by choice, I assure you.”
He looked skeptical. “I don’t know…I’m stickin’ with my initial interpretation. Civilian with a hero complex.”
“Gimme a break.”
“Speakin’ of heroics, I got a call from the director yesterday. He says he’s recommending me for some kinda medal. ‘Retired Agent of the Year,’ or some shit.”
“Great. I think both you and Detective Lowrey deserve credit for Randall.”
“Maybe. But the thing is, I gotta sign something that forbids me to discuss the case, or my unsanctioned actions, with anyone. Especially the media. Total nondisclosure. Can you believe that crap?”
“Nothing about the bureau surprises me. Not anymore.”
He smiled. “I’ve taught you well, Grasshopper.”
We chatted a few more minutes, until I noticed his voice faltering.
“Look, Lyle, I better go. You should rest.”
“Hey, that reminds me. I didn’t have any night terrors the whole time I was out of it. Not even during surgery. Think I got cured?”
“I think you got shot. We’ve still got a lot of work ahead of us. And someday, if you’re a good patient, I’ll explain the difference between sleeping and sedation.”
“And I’ll teach you the difference between a Hallmark card and classic poetry.”
He shakily offered me his hand. I took it.
“Deal.”
***
I crossed town in my new rental beneath a crystalline, cloudless sky, heading for Mt. Washington. And home. According to the auto shop in Wheeling, it would take at least another week to repair my Mustang. And, as I’d guessed, it wasn’t going to be cheap.
I headed toward the bridge, traffic already clogging the on-ramp. The improving weather had obviously prompted more people to get out and about.
I tapped my fingers on the wheel. After all that’d happened, my thoughts kept returning to Eleanor Lowrey. And what the future would bring. If anything.
Until I realized I was too tired to think about it. Or much else. And too beat up. Though I’d removed the bandages from my hands, my ribs were still taped and my neck still hurt like hell.
All I wanted to do now was get home, pour myself a tall drink, and watch the setting sun give the Three Rivers its nightly coat of many colors.
Tomorrow, it was back to work. Seeing my patients, especially those traumatized by physical violence and emotional pain, victimized by the brutality of crime and its aftermath. These included—as soon as he was well enough—retired FBI agent Lyle Barnes. I truly hoped to someday rid him of his night terrors.
Regardless, given the events of the past weeks, I knew one thing for certain. There were enough terrors in waking life to occupy me for a long time to come.
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