The sudden aggression startled Casey, and he swore he saw a mustached reporter sprout purple wings and flutter across the locker room. It was only a hallucination, resulting from a narcoleptic sleep attack. Next thing he knew, he absorbed blows to both shoulders.
Narziss had pushed him. “Thread! What the hell?”
Casey’s head and shoulders slumped, his entire body still as a statue. He felt incredibly embarrassed, with the entire room looking at him, Narziss towering over him.
Narziss toyed with Casey, loving the audience. “Thread, you freak, my son wants to bring you in for Show and Tell.” More chuckles.
Casey suffered from a rare form of narcolepsy, a neurological disorder, wherein his head drooped in partial cataplexy—or loss of muscle control—while the rest of his body froze in sleep paralysis. Since he couldn’t move any part of his body other than his eyes, he often envisioned news articles to pass the time and maintain sanity:
JOCK SO FUNNY, REPORTER FORGOT TO MOVE
GREEN BAY, Wis. — A local man, Casey Thread, suffered a narcoleptic attack today in the Hail locker room. Reporters laughed, adding credence to a new poll showing that most think narcolepsy is hilarious. Thread said that in middle school, boys ran to him with garden snakes they knew would scare him into a narcoleptic episode, all while an older bully filmed it with a camcorder. “How clever!” Thread said.
Now Casey heard what sounded like water draining from his ears after swimming. He snapped out of the sleep attack and, for a moment, couldn’t distinguish reality from hallucination. He said what came to mind. “Why would your son want me for Show and Tell, when his dad could demonstrate how to have an affair perfectly well?”
Narziss’s eyes bulged and muscles flared as he grabbed Casey by his blazer and tossed him against a nearby locker. Pain shot through Casey’s body, especially the back of his head, which bumped a metal clothes hook. The room became a blur. The media throng stepped back.
Hail quarterback Johnny Oakley yelled to Narziss from across the locker room: “Beat up the big reporter, Narzy! You’re such a tough guy.” Oakley flashed his go-to smoldering look—the one from the underwear ads, and gave Narziss an upward head nod. Oakley made millions and dated models and some jealous reporters didn’t like him. Casey did, because Oakley took the time to treat others like human beings. Casey’s height and slender build were dead giveaways that he had never played college football, much less pro, so he instantly lost most players’ respect. Not Johnny Oakley’s. He shared Casey’s view that a little respect for others went a long way.
Narziss chuckled, released Casey, and made a feeble attempt to smooth the reporter’s pocket square. Some onlookers laughed with Narziss, undoubtedly to curry favor; the rest returned to business, interviewing other players.
Narziss removed his jock strap. He closed his eyes and, with forefinger and thumb, dropped it to the floor with a satisfied grin, even though he stood five feet from the trainers’ laundry bin. He knew they’d pick it up for him. He sauntered naked toward the showers like a crooner on stage, singing “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” surprisingly well.
Casey rolled his eyes and left.
3
MONDAY, JANUARY 17
Casey crossed the stadium parking lot on foot and headed toward Elena’s apartment, where two squad cars were already parked outside.
Nell appeared, approaching the complex from the parking lot, her long blonde hair looking particularly luminescent. She met Casey in front.
“I don’t suppose Elena has been playing Wii in her apartment this whole time.” Casey felt drowsy, so he took a caffeine tablet from his pocket and swallowed it.
Nell pulled her large curls to one side of her neck. “You probably enjoy picturing her in her underwear doing Wii yoga.”
“Tennis,” Casey said, “but I’m flexible.” They both walked up the external cement stairs of the apartment complex, sliding their hands along the iron railing toward the second floor. The temperature hovered around thirty degrees, and Casey cursed himself for forgetting his gloves. “My hand is liable to stick to this metal.”
“Just don’t put your tongue on it,” Nell said.
The steps led to an outdoor walkway with entrances to each apartment. The doors were navy blue with big white numbers, all corresponding to the digits of the most legendary Hail players—guys like Herb Davis, Billy Kronski, Johnny Oakley, and Todd Narziss. Elena lived in apartment 55, labeled after Kronski, the best linebacker the Hail had ever had. Two cops stood outside Elena’s door. One was short, white, young, and slim. The other—older, taller, thicker, and Native American—knocked on the door.
“Excuse me, Officer,” Nell said. The cops turned to face her.
“I’m Nell Jenner, I called you about my missing friend, Elena Ortega,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” the fit young officer said.
“Have you found her?” Nell said.
“There’s no answer here,” the older cop responded.
“Can’t you enter under exigent circumstances?” Casey asked, having covered crime for the Green Bay Times in the past. He hoped to someday get back to writing more crime and feature stories for magazines. For now, though, sports was his niche and he couldn’t work for free.
“There’s no sign your friend is in danger,” said the older cop. “Unless you know of evidence to the contrary.”
“I know she never stands me up on a Friday night,” Nell said. “And in two years she has never not shown up to walk her friend’s kid to school.”
“People leave town unexpectedly,” the young officer said. “Did Ms. Ortega say or do anything out of the ordinary in the last few days?”
Nell shook her head. “No. But I’ve got a really bad feeling about this. Please, is there anything you can do?”
The older officer frowned. “We’ll err on the side of caution and generate a missing-person file on your friend. I’ll have her cell company put a watch on her phone number in case there’s activity on it.” The officer turned to leave. “Let us know if you hear anything else.”
“You’re not going to look for her?” Casey said.
The younger cop stopped, swiveled, and smirked. “Who are you?”
“Casey Thread. I’m a friend of Elena’s.”
“Well, Mr. Thread, more than 2,300 Americans are reported missing every day.”
“Yikes,” Casey said and glanced at Nell, avoiding the officer’s glare.
The cop stepped closer to Casey. “Most of them are children who have either run away or disappeared with a family member, but hundreds are adults. Very few are abducted.” He leaned even further toward Casey, his face flushed, his breath smelling of coffee. “We don’t have the resources to look for all of them, okay? So we prioritize the ones who are actually in imminent danger.”
What an insolent conclusion sans evidence, thought Casey. “Nobody knows what has become of Elena,” he said.
“Hrmf,” the younger officer said.
“Let us know if you hear anything else,” the older cop said, in a tone fit for talking to toddlers. “Okay?”
Casey raised his brows and squinted.
With that, the officers left.
This had already been quite a day for confrontations, and Casey hoped it wouldn’t be one of those days that snowballed from bad to worse. He glanced at Nell and said, “I should have read How to Deal With Difficult People before I accepted this assignment.” Nell smirked as they moseyed down the steps outside Elena’s apartment and back to the parking lot. He had an empty feeling. “Is there anything we can do to help?”
“Other than annoy the uniforms?” Nell said.
“Got that covered.” He hadn’t meant to alienate the police. But if they weren’t on the case, someone had to do something.
Nell nodded in the direction of the gas station. “When I last spoke to her on her phone, she had stopped for gas across from the stadium. We could ask the clerk about it.”
Casey gently grabbed her wrist.
“That’s a good lead. I’m parked in the stadium lot. Want a ride?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll drop you back at your car after.” They strode to his Ford sedan and got in. Casey drove through the stadium lot, towards the gas station. He wondered whether Elena was in a hospital. Or a ditch. He suddenly fell into a narcoleptic fit, motionless with eyes open.
The car drifted into the path of an oncoming car, each vehicle traveling about twenty miles per hour. Casey panicked, but could do nothing to stop it. Crap crap CRAP!
Nell grabbed the steering wheel. “Casey! Watch out!”
They smashed head-on into the oncoming silver Prius. The collision jolted his entire body, leaving him with a numbing sensation. The airbags inflated, which was fortunate for Casey, since sleep paralysis prevented him from bracing himself. His body swelled, pulsing in raw pain.
“Casey, are you okay?” Nell said.
He couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, his face nestled in the air bag. Great, just wonderful. Was this how he would go out: death by giant ball of air?
Nell pulled him back into an upright position in the driver’s seat and shook his shoulder. “Casey? Case!”
He snapped out of it and took a deep breath to recover. He coughed, and took several more desperate breaths to regain his equilibrium. Lightheaded, his pain receded and his gratitude for Nell grew.
“Good to see your narcolepsy is under control,” she said.
“The lid’s down tight on it.” Casey staggered out of the Ford like an elderly man. “I’m so sorry, Nell.” His doctor had warned him not to drive for longer than fifteen-minute stretches, for fear of having an attack. But this had come much more quickly. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine,” she said. “Are you?”
“Yeah, yeah.” The frigid, dry air nipped at his skin, slowly turning it into sandpaper. “Let’s check on the other driver.”
The airbags had deployed in the Prius, and an elderly woman gingerly got out of the vehicle.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” Casey said.
“I’m fine, other than my glasses.” The lady presented the gnarled remnants. She checked her short white hair. “And here I just got a perm.”
“Sorry about that,” Casey said sincerely. He could see his breath in the frigid air. “Glad you’re okay.” Pedestrians stopped and asked if anyone was hurt. This would put points on his driving record, jack up his insurance rates, and become a royal pain of a project when all he wanted to do was find his friend and ensure her safety.
Casey called the police to report the accident. In minutes, a squad car pulled up. The same younger officer they had met at Elena’s apartment appeared and asked if everyone involved was all right. The cop gave Casey a glance as if to say, “You again?” then spoke with the elderly woman.
For now, Casey couldn’t go anywhere, but he could regroup with Nell and strategize. So he whispered to her, “Did you know Elena was having an affair with Todd Narziss?”
Nell rolled her eyes. “Yes, of course I knew. How did you find out?”
“She told me at the party the other night. It was…kind of weird.”
Nell shrugged. “Maybe she wanted you to be jealous.”
His heart panged. “Don’t get me wrong, I like Elena and all, but sleeping with Narziss? That’s worse than gargling toilet water.”
“You think she’s off at his vacation home?” Nell said.
Casey knew Narziss had one in the Virgin Islands. “She said she had broken it off, that she was single.” While he had been shocked that night to learn of the affair, he had been heartened to learn that she was interested in him and, even more so, to discover that she was available. He’d never asked when she had broken it off with Narziss, and a part of him didn’t want to know. Now he hunched with Nell near the accident, sharing body heat and wishing he could teleport to Quito for a subtropical vacation.
“She could be back home now,” Nell said. “But then she would have canceled our plans, I know it. It just...doesn’t feel right.”
Something gnawed at Casey’s stomach. “Maybe Mrs. Narziss found out about his affair and hired someone to get rid of her husband’s mistress.”
“Don’t even say that,” Nell said. But her expression signaled that she had thought of the same scenario.
Casey gesticulated. “Great, I’m scheduled to have dinner tomorrow night with the happy Narziss family.”
“Good luck with that.”
Casey reached into his crunched car and extracted a canteen of cappuccino. He took it nearly everywhere he went. Caffeine didn’t prevent his sleep attacks but it did counteract his constant drowsiness. While waiting for the tow truck, he used his smartphone to locate the numbers for both Green Bay hospitals and called them to see if Elena Ortega had been admitted that morning. Both receptionists said no. Next, he called a free clinic downtown that served many immigrants. There was no one by the name Elena there either, not even a woman fitting her description.
Nell looked hopeful as he ended the call.
Casey frowned and shook his head. He gazed forward and his shoulders slouched.
Nell dipped her head to look in his eyes. “Casey? Case.”
He imagined another headline:
LOCAL MAN WISHES TANTRIC SLEEP ATTACKS WOULD CLIMAX, ALREADY
Nell shook his shoulder. “Wake up, sleepyhead.”
Casey snapped out of it. “Thanks.”
“Do you just…fall asleep?”
“Not exactly. I sort of freeze. During a sleep attack, I can see you and hear you, but I can’t move.”
“You fall asleep like that a lot?” Nell said.
“What’s a lot?”
“More than you pee?”
He proffered his cappuccino. “I pee a lot. I’m the town narcoleptic.”
“You shouldn’t be driving,” Nell said.
“Statistically, it’s safer to fly.”
She whacked his shoulder. “Let me drive you around, at least for a while.”
Casey turned serious. “I can’t ask you to do that.”
“I insist. Being the top sales consultant in my Baciare Cosmetics district means I drive a company car.”
“Seriously? You’re number one in your district?”
“Yes.”
“Well done, you.”
“Thank you.”
Casey smiled. “I appreciate you giving me a ride for a while. At least until we find Elena.” He paused a moment, returning to thoughts of his last encounter with her, and where she might be now. He wanted to learn more about her country, her family, her culture. At the same time, he couldn’t get past her affair with a certain athlete. “What does she see in Narziss?”
Nell smirked. “The fame, the money, the statue, the—”
Casey raised his palm and patted the air. “Okay, I get it, thanks.”
Nell lifted a shoulder. “My mom always says, ‘Girls pack a special wallop—it’s how we get men to marry us.’”
Casey shook his head. “Elena’s not the marrying type.”
Nell folded her arms. “But you’re wondering if she’s into you.”
Casey glanced at her. “Do you think she is?”
“You sure were into her.”
Regardless who she was or what she had done, Casey knew Elena, respected her, and he couldn’t just assume she would be fine. If only she had wings like the Virgen statue in Quito, then she could fly to safety. He paced. “What if someone took her? We’ve got to find her.”
4
MONDAY, JANUARY 17
Nell glanced at the car accident, then at Casey. “Hey, Elena’s my best friend. I want to find her as fast as you. But panicking won’t help.”
Casey didn’t respond but kept pacing until the officer returned. A flatbed tow truck arrived to transport the damaged Ford.
The police officer approached Casey, pulling on a black winter hat with GBPD sewn on the front. He asked what had happened.
Casey admitted blame and surrendered
his driver’s license. The officer took it back to his squad car, wrote a ticket, and gave it to Casey. The reporter let out a long, frustrated breath that he could see in the cold air.
“At least we weren’t on the Interstate,” Nell said. Once the officer dismissed them, they walked through the stadium parking lot, crossed the street, and entered the gas station. The middle-aged white woman behind the counter kept scanning Ding-Dongs and Cokes. Three customers stood in line.
Casey noticed her name tag and said, “Hi, Sandy.”
The cashier fluffed her long dishwater-blonde hair. “How can I help you?” She appeared to be in her late thirties and smelled like cigarettes, even from across the counter. Casey had never realized the strength of that odor until he quit smoking. Not that he blamed her for puffing away. He had long viewed cigarettes as his best friend, and quitting his nicotine addiction had been like burying that loyal pal. Still, it was that, or he’d be the one getting buried prematurely.
A teenager in line said, “Hey, there’s a line, and it starts back there.” He thumbed over his own shoulder.
Casey cleared his throat and held up an index finger. “One moment, please,” then turned back to Sandy. “Our friend is missing. Her name is Elena Ortega. She worked at the Hail Pro Shop.”
Nell went with it. “When I last spoke to her Saturday late afternoon, she was here.”
“What did she look like?” Sandy said, scanning another item.
“She’s Latina,” Nell said, “about five feet, nine inches, with long black hair.”
“Are you two cops?” Sandy said.
“No,” Casey said. “Just friends of Elena.”
“If she’s such a good friend, why don’t you call her?”
“Tried that.” Casey flashed a photo of Elena he’d taken on his phone during Skeeto’s party.
Sandy raised her brows and stepped backward. “Oh, her.”
Casey felt a surge of excitement. “You recognize her?”
“Todd Narziss came in here an hour ago asking about the same woman.”
Narziss?
Sleep When You're Dead Page 2
