Sleep When You're Dead

by Chris Hollenback

  “Hey, he does have super powers,” Nell said. “I mean, faking narcolepsy; are you kidding me?”

  Casey raised a hand and bowed his head. “Hold your applause.” Torres must have filled her in. He approached Nell’s bed. “You two know each other?”

  “We were in the academy together,” Torres said.

  Casey felt a pang of jealousy. He nodded at Torres and looked at Nell. “How are you, gorgeous?”

  Nell glanced down at her arm. “It’s just a little broken.”

  “Better than a little dead,” Casey said.

  “Don’t let her fool you.” Torres pointed at her arm. “Those are stitches from the stabbing.”

  Casey winced. “Seems like she’ll live.”

  “Don’t be too disappointed,” Nell said.

  “They’re running a few more tests,” Torres said, “but the X-rays on her back were negative, other than some nasty contusions.”

  “Ten feet is a long fall,” Casey said.

  Nell tried to downplay it. “Eh, it’s like a basketball player falling after a dunk. Not a big deal.”

  “She’ll be out of here by the end of the day,” Torres said, glancing up at the ceiling. “Lord help us.”

  “Rats,” Casey said, “and here I was going to ask your mother to see your head carved in cheese before you got released from the hospital.”

  Torres raised his brows at her. “Your mother has your head carved in cheese?”

  Nell smirked. “It’s a long story. One far more excruciating than broken bones or stitches.”

  “You know what they say, the apple doesn’t fall…” Torres noticed Casey and Nell staring at each other, so he trailed off, cleared his throat, and stood up. “Um, I could use a cup of coffee. Take care, NJ.”

  “Thanks, T,” Nell said, “for everything.”

  “You bet. Mr. Thread?” Torres shook Casey’s hand. “Thanks for your help out there.”

  Casey put a fist to his mouth to prevent a yawn. “Thank you.”

  “Well, if I can do anything for you…” Torres said.

  Casey took out his business card and handed it to Torres. “Actually, if you ever get a hot lead for a big story, I’d love to get an anonymous tip.”

  Torres read the card. “‘Casey Thread: Freelance Journalist.’ Nice.” He nodded, put it in his pocket, and patted it. “I’ll keep this in mind.”

  “Thanks.”

  Torres left.

  Casey pulled a chair up to Nell’s bed. “Nice digs you have here.”

  “I know, right? I was hoping for cashmere quilts, but you can’t have it all.”

  “You’re getting soft, Agent.” He had missed her wit.

  “I do have a soft spot…”

  His face brightened. “For?”

  “Chocolate martinis.”

  “Oh.” Casey blushed and glanced away.

  “You didn’t think I was referring to you, did you?”

  He said reluctantly, “That would have been nice.”

  “Come on, you’re a Green Bay boy and I’m a Windy City girl. Long-distance relationships are doomed from the start.”

  “That’s true. You’d have to get a lot sicker for me to wear a Chicago jersey for you.”

  “I’ll work on that.”

  “But seriously, I travel so much it doesn’t matter where I live.”

  “That’s a lie,” she said. “I travel, too, for cases. But home is still where you return, it’s your center, your base, where your body recharges and your soul finds peace. How could it work if we’re constantly coming and going?”

  He stared for a moment at her IV. “I’d buy a day planner?”

  Nell used the remote to turn off her TV. “Come on, Case, you’d miss the Hail, and Bay Beach.”

  “I don’t have to live in Green Bay. Sure I’ll miss Bay Beach, but Chicago has Navy Pier—where they filmed The Dark Knight.”

  Nell pursed her lips and raised her brows. “Checkmate, you win. When are you moving?”

  Casey beamed. “Well, I should go back and get my things, but all I’d need is a place to stay.”

  She squinted at him. “You’re not implying you want to live with me, are you?”

  Someone knocked on the door to Nell’s hospital room. It was a woman in her fifties. “Agent Jenner?”

  “Yes,” Nell said.

  “I’m Susan Bachowski. From Galesburg?” She had the hulky bone structure of a discus thrower.

  Nell said, “Yes, of course, Jenny’s mother. Please, come in. I’d give you a hug except for my arm.”

  “And your stitches,” Casey reminded her. Good grief, he hadn’t even moved in with her yet and they already sounded like an old married couple.

  “I just came to thank you for catching him.” Susan entered the room carrying a glass vase of colorful flowers. Casey guessed her height to be six-foot-three.

  “You heard?” Nell said.

  “Yes, your bureau chief called with the good news. I couldn’t cope with Jenny’s death—even begin to heal—until her killer was in jail or dead. I know it sounds harsh, but there’s a visceral impulse for a parent that’s just so…to think more mothers and daughters could have gone through the same ordeal! I’m just so relieved.”

  “That’s over now,” Nell said. “We caught him. I can’t believe you came all this way. You’re so sweet.”

  “The worst feeling is waiting for something—that you know will have a major impact on your life—but over which you have no control,” Susan said. “You ended that wait, that helpless feeling. I didn’t know how to repay you, so I came to tell you in person how much it means to me.” She set the flowers on the counter near Nell’s bed. “I left right after I got the call.”

  “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Bachowski,” Nell said. “But really, you should thank Casey.”

  “Casey?”

  “Oh, I’m just a reporter, ma’am.” He stood and shook her huge hand.

  Susan sneered down at him. “I hate reporters.”

  Casey instinctively leaned back.

  “They’d call me all the time to ask if the police had made any progress, or if I’d hired an investigator. I wish they’d just leave me alone.”

  That created awkward silence.

  “Casey’s the reporter who tracked down the killer,” Nell said.

  “You found him?”

  Casey hunched. “With Agent Jenner’s help.”

  Susan bear-hugged Casey…a little too tightly, lifting him off the ground as if he were her long-lost child.

  Her grip on his chest squished him and restricted his voice. “Okay…thank you, thank you.”

  Susan let him go.

  Casey gasped.

  Nell chuckled. “We make a great team.”

  Susan’s countenance darkened. “That monster ruined my life, and the lives of God-knows-how-many others.” Then she glanced at Nell. “If there’s anything I can do to help make sure he doesn’t hurt anyone else—”

  “I’ll let you know,” Nell said. “We may want you to testify, or speak at sentencing.”

  Susan nodded. “Absolutely.”

  “You could help me with my article,” Casey said. “If that’s okay with you, Agent Jenner.”

  “It’s up to Mrs. Bachowski.”

  Casey interviewed Susan Bachowski about the night her daughter disappeared. She said Jenny had gone to a movie with Alyssa, Jenny’s best friend from next door. Alyssa said they were in line for popcorn when a man with short-brown hair approached Jenny and asked if she were a model.

  “Jenny, of course, was flattered,” Susan said. “Who wouldn’t be? I mean, a dark, handsome, older man says that to you? Come on. Every girl wants to be picked from a crowd. Jenny had my height and her dad’s slender frame. Hailangelo told Jenny he was a sculptor, and that his work had been in galleries in Manhattan.”

  “Had they?” Casey said.

  “I checked.” Susan said. “He does in fact have an exhibit there. He fooled so many young women. It’
s every mother’s nightmare. I just can’t believe you caught him. This is really happening. My daughter really is dead.” She fanned herself with her hand and held back tears.

  Casey tried to focus on the moment and not allow his mind to wander back to that basement or those statues. Susan broke down and cried.

  Casey fetched a tissue for her.

  She blotted her eye liner and sniffled. “Do you have children, Casey?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Someday you will and, when you do, you’ll know why what you two have done here is a miracle granted by God.”

  Casey glanced at Nell. She shrugged as if to say, “Could be.”

  43

  THURSDAY, JANUARY 27

  By lunch the next day, Nell and Leila were out of the hospital and Casey took them and Elzbieta out to eat at Fixate Factory.

  Leila’s boss, Frank, dried his hands with a towel. He had a full head of gray hair, a matching thick mustache, and a rotund figure. “Leila, by golly, great to see you in one piece. Your mom told me all about what happened. You eat free today.” They ordered soup and cappuccinos to warm their bones, and beer bread to fill their rumbling stomachs.

  Kenny walked in the door. “Case! What’s up?”

  “Hey Kenny, I’m just happy to be here. You ready for the big game?”

  “I don’t know, Case, it will be awfully tough for the Hail without Narziss or Cummings. Are you going to it?”

  “Of course.” A TV mounted to the wall behind the bar showed ESPN footage of Narziss leaving the hospital with his head bandaged. Casey’s mother leaned toward him, pointing at the TV. “Why can’t you be a nice boy like Narziss?”

  Casey fell into a narcoleptic attack. Not now, he thought. How embarrassing.

  AREA MAN’S MOTHER COMPARES HIM TO DRUGGIE JERK

  Nell closed her eyes and laughed.

  Words at the bottom of the TV screen scrolled from right to left and read, “Hail star Todd Narziss assaulted, ruled out for the season.”

  Elzbieta shook her son’s shoulders. “Casey, snap out of it.”

  He came to. Kenny stood next to them, staring into his cupped hands, rocking slightly while gazing into his “box.” Kenny said, “Casey takes me to Hail games.”

  Elzbieta looked confused. “Pardon me?”

  Kenny leaned in, rocking slightly. “Casey is my friend.” Kenny held up his cupped hands so she could see them. “He gave me this no-receipt gift.”

  “What gift?” She squinted and frowned. “I don’t see anything.”

  “We’re buddies who talk on the phone,” Kenny said. “He takes me to Hail games. He never forgets.”

  Elzbieta hesitated. “I…see. But what do you mean, ‘no-receipt gift’?”

  Casey figured she would have to know or it would bother her.

  Kenny stopped rocking and said, “It’s a present you can’t buy. And I like that kind best.”

  Casey winked at Kenny and pointed to him with approval. They made fists, bumped each other’s knuckles, and pulled their hands away like squid in water.

  Leila approached the table, holding a black Sharpie aloft. “Found one. Who wants to sign Nell’s cast first?” She handed it to Casey.

  Casey took it and drew a chocolate martini on the palm of her cast. Nell smiled. He kissed her forehead.

  Leila frowned. “Get a room.”

  44

  MONDAY, FEBRUARY 14

  Nell and Casey packed belongings inside his Green Bay apartment to prepare for his move two hundred miles south to Chicago. She held up a recent issue of Sports Scene magazine. On the cover was a picture of New York celebrating its playoff victory over Green Bay, and the Hail players hanging their heads in defeat. “Look at this,” she said, grinning as she read the headline. “‘Sex, Drugs, and Murder: The Story Behind the Hail’s Playoff Exit—cover story by Casey Thread.’ Wow.”

  Casey taped a moving box shut and stood up, his back sore. “Even a narcoleptic squirrel finds a nut once in a while.”

  “Did they pay you more for the cover story?”

  “It’s funding my moving expenses.” The magazine issue had set sales records. Casey’s editors loved him. He had even gotten a congratulatory call from the publisher, whom Casey had never met. He wrote about Hailangelo a bit in the Sports Scene story, but saved most of the serial-killer saga for a prominent men’s fashion magazine, well as an interview on a cable TV show. He detailed how Samantha Narziss had provided evidence in the form of email messages that her husband had plotted to have Skeeto make his bastard child disappear—all to prevent the stain of an affair from tainting the image of the Hail or their star player. But they were football men, not trained killers, so they were terrible at it. That allowed a true pro, Hailangelo, to beat them to her.

  Now Nell draped her arms over Casey’s shoulders. “I’m so proud of you.”

  “Couldn’t have done it without you.”

  They kissed. Casey said, “There’s one thing I still don’t understand.”

  “What?” Nell said.

  “Everyone else—even my mother to a degree—hasn’t really accepted my narcolepsy.”

  “That still surprises you?”

  “No, but the fact that you get it does.”

  “I like you for who you are, and what you do while you’re awake.”

  “Huh,” Casey said.

  “What?”

  “It’s a coincidence, because I feel the same about you.”

  Nell smiled. They grabbed boxes and carried them to the moving truck, their muscles tightening against the cold.

  45

  TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 15

  Casey crawled out from bed and found Nell cooking at the stove in her Chicago apartment.

  “Welcome to your first morning at La Maison de Nell. Hope you like scrambled eggs and slightly burnt toast.” Her curly hair was up in a clip, and her black apron said in white letters, French Kiss the Cook.

  Casey had never wanted her more. His stomach growled. “Considering I haven’t had a decent breakfast in a week, that is gourmet.” They had decided to take it slowly, simply cuddling his first night there. He knew most couples didn’t approach it that way, but most couples hadn’t recently been in Hailangelo’s basement. Now Nell set Casey’s plate on the table in front of him.

  “Thank you for cooking.” He took a bite of eggs. “Mmm.” He chewed and swallowed. “I still can’t believe Elena and Skeeto are gone.”

  Nell sighed. “I know. It sucks. How did Kurt Vonnegut put it?”

  “‘So it goes.’”

  “So it goes.”

  “Despite what Skeeto did, I miss him, his voice, his jokes, his overzealous conga playing.”

  “I know, and I miss Elena. But she would be rolling her eyes at us moping. She’d crack a joke to lighten the mood.”

  “Or text us something witty,” Casey said. They had grieved Elena at her memorial, and Nell was right that their friend would want them to heal. Casey felt fortunate he had Nell to understand what he had been through and to make happier memories with. Life—with or without narcolepsy—would never be perfect. But with someone to share it with, he could cope.

  He felt inspired to tell her how he felt. “You are the shores of Pasadena, fair and contoured, like gentle caresses, with the intelligence of a witness to years of missed steps and holding hands, of playful splashing and aching laughter. And I, I am the ocean who encompasses, surrounds you and holds you, washes and secures you without a thought, without doubt and with confidence forever. I am on your horizon even when I recede. And we are both enriched when again we meet.”

  She kissed him. “Did you just make that up?”

  He shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it for awhile.”

  She removed her clip, shook out her hair, and sat on his lap. “I’m ready.”

  “Ready ready?”

  Nell smiled and nodded. “The bigger question is, are you ready, sleepyhead? You know you can’t fall asleep on a girl.”

  Casey
grinned as they stood. “You keep me wide awake.” He picked her up and carried her into the bedroom.

  Their breakfast cooled.

  Hailangelo lay in a hospital bed in the medical ward of a high-security prison in central Wisconsin. A tall male nurse, strong as a steed, dressed in all white, brought him his mail, a solitary letter postmarked from Seattle. Interesting, Hailangelo thought. He knew a few people in the art scene there. Did they want his work in their galleries? The envelope had been addressed to the correctional facility. But how did an artist in Seattle know how to reach him in prison? The phrase correctional facility made Hailangelo chortle; as if locking him up would somehow “correct” him. He opened the letter.

  Dear Hailangelo:

  Greetings from the great Northwest. It’s terrible to see any genius struck down in his prime, and so it is with a melancholy spirit that I write to you today. Your statues are resplendent, your talents brilliant, and I met the news of your arrest with extreme dismay.

  Do you hear it too—the reverberations of the music, dissonant chords and bass vibrations? I experience it whenever someone passes me on the sidewalk and I say “hello” and they walk past without acknowledgement, as if I do not exist. I feel it every time I ask someone to hang out and they contrive an excuse. You see, I think I exist but, if nobody acknowledges me, do I really? I suppose I might as well not. The solution then, as you know, is to make them notice. You’ve done that so artistically, leaving your work on college campuses. I’m sure that was hard for you, to part with such radiance, but I understand. It was the only way to get the attention you deserved.

  The music, for me, is the same my mother used to play on the piano in our living room. She wasn’t a “kid person,” she’d say. I have no siblings, so I’d play alone in my bedroom, listening to her perform concerti, feeling the piano strings vibrate through the walls and in the floor. I feel the music right now, in fact. My hands shake.

  I write this with confidence that we are of a kindred spirit, that you can sympathize with me, and detect my exuberance to become your protégé. Most artists aren’t appreciated while they’re alive—but I appreciate my contemporaries. I know I have much to learn from you. I also realize that most phenomena opt not to teach because, why would you, when you can simply…do? But now, what with your incapacitation, I summon the courage to ask. Will you be my mentor?