None Shall Sleep

by Ellie Marney

  “Simon, shut up.”

  Emma Lewis panting, with the thin, high screaming in her head, eyes wide and edging carefully past the desk. It’s a big room and the Butcher could be anywhere. Step. Step. Closer to Simon’s cell, she can get a view of the whole room there, or maybe she just doesn’t want to feel alone. Two hands on the gun, turning as she steps, swinging to cover too many angles. Maybe not the curtains, maybe the old pews at the sides of the room—

  “Emma!”

  Swinging back and Hoyt’s on her, slamming into her—she sprawls to the floor near Simon’s cage, knocks her head on one of the legs of the pushed-over sawhorse.

  Emma on her back, dazzled by stars, and Hoyt above her, looming over her, his face contorted, ugly with rage, the bloody gouge in it from Kristin’s needle. Hoyt’s hot breath on her, his arm lifted with the scalpel, keys dangling low off the lanyard in front.

  She slings her arm up with the gun, and her other hand lifts to grab the keys, to pull him down to her.

  He drives the scalpel into the meat of her left bicep.

  She shrieks, finger jerking on the trigger—the gun goes off.

  Wide.

  Emma could cry because that’s it, that’s the end, an empty gun and a ringing in her ears—she wails in fury and despair, energy deserting her, it takes everything she’s got to throw the weapon at him.

  Hoyt bats it aside.

  She scrabbles away on her back, one arm with the blade handle protruding obscenely, she can’t feel it. Hoyt’s face victorious, his slow advance, like a man relishing what’s to come. Emma sobs, clenches her last fist, the crunch of metal as she clutches the keys.

  The keys on the lanyard that slipped off Hoyt’s neck.

  And now Emma Lewis with a terrible choice, and the sudden awareness that the thin, high screaming inside her head isn’t the screaming of Vicki or Tammy, it has never been their screaming, it is her own screaming, her own screaming—

  She rolls sideways and throws the keys through the bars of Simon’s cage.

  The lights go out.

  Beyond the door of the chapel, a clanking sound as the steel gate in the great hall slides ponderously and automatically shut.

  FBI found the circuit breakers, Emma thinks. It is her final thought, perhaps.

  Scrambling forward on her stomach and knees, trapped and going nowhere in the dark, her breath gasping, the Butcher behind her, he might slice her Achilles tendons before he kills her, oh god please no—she rolls back over. Hoyt is staring down, smiling, he must believe he’s smiling, he’s slavering.

  “Miss Lewis,” he says. Lips pulled back from his teeth, showing his gums.

  Sprawled back, slippery elbows hurting, blood beneath her, blood thumping in her palms and fingertips, blood thumping in her head. She can only stare up at Hoyt’s expression. Her finger squeezes, spasming on an absent trigger.

  Movement from the left.

  And the most terrifying thing Emma has ever seen emerges from the shadows.

  Simon Gutmunsson, free and unrestrained, walking closer, sauntering really. In the darkness of the asylum he resolves like smoke poured onto glass, gleaming like a phantasm when the moonlight hits him. White skin, red lips, his hair a beacon. Eyes glittering, fathoms deep.

  Emma has time to think, He is out, he is out and you can’t stop him now, before the clamor in her mind takes over, older instincts kicking in.

  She freezes, a prey animal trapped between two apex predators.

  “Artist—” Hoyt starts.

  “Surprise,” Simon whispers. He drives the edge of his hand into Hoyt’s throat.

  While the man chokes, Simon puts a gentle palm over Hoyt’s mouth, backs Hoyt to the cage wall. Hoyt’s eyes bulge.

  “Hello, Anthony.” Simon pins him tight. “I think you’ve been under the impression that I didn’t understand the game we’ve been playing.”

  Hoyt struggles. Simon leans in, his eyes incandescent.

  “The years sneak up on you, don’t they? Wrinkles, and forgetfulness, and liver spots on the backs of your hands… But it doesn’t have to be that way. You have the skills, the training to do something about it, and you can be transformed.…”

  Simon’s beauty in the dark room, Hoyt mewing beneath his hand.

  “And then you see me from afar, and you wonder if you dare. Do you dare, Anthony? Of course you do. You are transformed, and Simon Gutmunsson is just a boy like any other boy, an exaggerated myth.… So you make your plans and place your ads and send your letters, and you’re thinking about it the whole time, aren’t you? What it would be like to dance beneath me in the warm-rushing shower of red…”

  Hoyt whimpers, his body restricted by Simon’s entire length, his head pressed hard against the bars of the cage.

  “I understand, Anthony, truly I do.” Simon brings his lips close to Hoyt’s ear, sharing the secret. “You’ve been searching out the glow, the spark, the lamp against the night, hoping to rekindle it in your own breast. The young have it, don’t they? Look at our lovely Emma—how she shines!”

  He forces the man’s head around. When Hoyt’s panicked gaze falls on her, Emma lets out a sob.

  “But Anthony, Anthony… all that gold is wasted on you. If you’re going to commit murder, Anthony, at least make it worth something. Something more than a midlife crisis.”

  Hoyt recoils from Simon’s snarl, but Simon’s arms are iron.

  “I killed for transcendence. But I don’t think you know what transcendence means. You probably don’t even know how to spell it. Look at me, Anthony. Do you think my mythology is undeserved? Did you really believe I didn’t understand the game? That I didn’t know who you were right from the start?”

  Simon’s expression changes, and Emma cries out with the change. He removes his hand. Hoyt takes a gasping breath, opens his mouth to speak—

  Simon crunches his teeth into Hoyt’s bottom lip like he’s eating an apple.

  Hoyt screams.

  Simon rips back his head, and the great flap of Hoyt’s lip comes with him, and he shakes his head, red droplets flying. He spits the meat onto the floor. Blood pours down; Simon’s mouth and chin are smeared with it, his eyes burning red.

  “DID YOU REALLY THINK YOU WERE LIKE ME?”

  Simon, rampant.

  “WE’RE NOT EVEN THE SAME FUCKING SPECIES.”

  Simon presses his hands on either side of Hoyt’s face, leans in again, and Emma looks up desperately at the ceiling. Can’t block out the screams.

  Shivering, after a moment she sees Simon taking a knee beside her, his visage awful to behold and his eyes all aflame. A firefly, she thinks, a firefly in the dark.

  “Dear Emma,” he says. “You’ll excuse me if I borrow this.”

  A sharp sliding pain that makes her gag, and Simon holds the scalpel in his hand, the scalpel that was in her arm.

  “It’s been a lovely evening, but it’s time for the fin de partie.” When he smiles, blood drips off his teeth.

  He lifts his hand, strokes a finger down her cheek. Emma feels it like a crackle of lightning.

  “You, I did not anticipate.” His eyes travel over her face. “How interesting. Come and visit me again sometime, Emma. We’ll have croissants.”

  Then Simon stands and follows Hoyt, who has crawled into the cage. The two of them are washed by the radiance of the moon shining through the barred windows.

  “Before your interruption,” Simon remarks, “we were discussing fairy tales. Do you remember the story of Rumpelstiltskin? When the queen found out his name, he thrust his foot into the ground and, in a passion, tore himself in two.”

  He gets no reply. Hoyt is beyond replying now.

  “Well,” Simon says, musing. “Let’s see what we can manage.…”

  He steps in and turns Hoyt over, and Emma turns her head away.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  It doesn’t take long to do the mop-up.

  SWAT must have fixed the circuit breakers, because all the lights come on a
t once and there’s the rattle of steel in the hall. Moments later, people flood into the room. Emma has almost managed to limp as far as the door by then, and one of the SWAT guys nearly bowls her over, but then everyone is way too busy rushing over to the ruckus in Simon’s cell.

  Emma sits herself on Pradeep’s desk. She feels numb.

  “Emma!”

  Someone is hollering her name, but all she can do is sit there and look around at the chaos. Simon is being restrained by four SWAT team members, overseen by two more SWAT team members. Dr. Scott stands nearby, her hand over her mouth. Hoyt lies almost forgotten in the cell, the dark pool under his head and abdomen seeming to float the body, although Emma assumes that’s a trick of the light.

  After a moment, one of the SWAT guys asks if she needs to see the paramedic. Emma just laughs and laughs, and soon she realizes her laughs sound like sobs, so she exerts all her control, every last bit remaining to her, and makes herself stop. Then she slides down off the desk and heads for the door.

  “Emma Lewis! Miss Lewis!”

  She turns around, and it’s Martino.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Lewis, I…” He pauses then to take her in, eyes skating over her, his expression appalled and astonished at the same time. When she’s about to ask if he called her for a particular reason, he finally speaks again. “Miss Lewis, I’m going to need to take a deposition from you about what happened here. You don’t… you don’t have to do it right away.”

  “That’s…” She actually doesn’t care anymore. “Okay. Whatever you need.”

  “Thank you.” He tilts his head. “There’s a SWAT team member giving emergency first aid to Mr. Bell and Miss Gutmunsson in the foyer. Do you want me to walk you up?”

  “No,” she says. “But thank you.”

  “Okay. If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Miss Lewis, I’m sorry.” He steps closer. “Look, there won’t be an official apology from the bureau, because they don’t really do that. But I just wanted to tell you that me, personally? I’m sorry. Raymond’s operation was fucked up from the start, and the unsub had the jump on us.”

  Emma lifts her chin. “That MT list Bell gave you. Do you still have it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then you won’t need to stretch far to ID that body in the cage over there.”

  “Ah, Jesus—” Martino grabs for the pocket on the inside of his jacket.

  Emma turns away.

  When she gets out into the great hall, she hears someone else calling her name, and at first she thinks it’s Martino again, but then people in front of her are being pushed aside and Bell is there. His expression is so jagged, Emma almost takes a step back. He’s got a better bandage around his chest but he still looks pale as hell, and his breaths are heaving.

  “It’s okay,” Emma says, flopping a hand. “Everything is…”

  She stops, because she doesn’t know for sure if everything’s okay. She looks up at Bell and he steps closer and cups her face in his hands. He wipes her cheeks with his thumbs and slowly, slowly, Emma sinks in until his arms wrap around and he is holding her. The warmth of him thaws some of the numbness inside, but Bell is solid; he keeps holding her while her shoulders shake.

  And that’s when she realizes that everything may not be okay, but everything is okay for now.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Ed Cooper’s memorial service is at one in the afternoon at the St. John’s Episcopal Church in Arlington. It’s crowded in the church, and so humid from people’s exhaled breath and body heat that the ushers open the rear doors.

  Emma stands beside Bell near the back of the church during the service, hoping nobody will notice she’s wearing a dress in navy, not black. The dress is an older one she originally packed when she was leaving for Quantico, and it has a matching bolero jacket with tight sleeves. She remembers she nearly took the dress and the jacket out of her suitcase, but her mother told her there might be a formal dinner, and that “you can’t wear jeans to everything, Emma Anne.”

  Now she stands in her wrong-colored dress, watching Bell to ensure he doesn’t fall over and listening to people tell commemorative stories about Cooper. At some point during the final eulogy by Cooper’s brother, Emma excuses herself to step outside. Bell seems all right, and she needs some air.

  She stands out in the green yard to the west of the church, near a big old oak tree, and takes off her scarf. After a while, with the filtered sun and the soft breeze on her face, she starts to feel improved. A little while after that, Bell comes out to see her, walking across the grass.

  “Hey.” He was discharged from the hospital only this morning. He’s still moving stiffly from the bandages, and his eyes seem unfocused sometimes from the pain medication.

  “Hey.” She remembers the way he cupped her face last night, at the end of everything. The memory is very vivid, and she thinks it’s maybe made them a little awkward around each other. It’s strange to be awkward around Bell, and she tries to push the feeling aside.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah. I just…” She stuffs her scarf in her pocket. “I’m not great with crowds.”

  “There’s a lot of people in there, for sure.” He glances back at the church, his hair blowing off his forehead. “It was a nice service.”

  Emma doesn’t know what to say to that. She’s been to too many funerals, and every one of them reminds her that death is empty and final, and that churches and memorials and gravestones are for the living.

  “I’m driving back to Apple Creek,” she blurts. “I mean, I’m leaving right after the service. I handed in my ID before I left Quantico.”

  “Emma, it’s all right.” Bell smiles softly. “I kind of figured you might do that.”

  “Oh. Okay. I didn’t mean to, um…”

  “You didn’t. I’m not offended. I’m glad I get to say goodbye before you take off.”

  There’s the Bell she knows. It makes her feel comfortable enough to step closer.

  “Have you, uh…” She has trouble getting it out, because she’s not sure she wants to know. “Have you heard any more news?”

  “Raymond’s not here, so I’m guessing he’s dealing with the Office of Professional Responsibility investigation. Kristin is still in the hospital. They tell me she’s gonna be okay. And Simon Gutmunsson… I don’t know. I guess they’re still arguing over what to do with him.” Bell lifts his chin so the sun falls on his face, his eyelids shuttering. “I find I’m not much worried about any of that stuff right now.”

  “You must be looking forward to going home.”

  “It’ll be good to see my sisters.” He opens his eyes. “I’m not sure how I’m going to tell my mom I got a bullet hole in my dad’s suit.”

  He grins, but it’s thin, and he looks off down the street. For a moment, Emma wonders what would happen if she touched his face now, the same way he touched hers. The idea beckons, the moment stretches, and she steps in a little more.

  “Will you be all right?”

  He looks back, blinks at her. “I’ll… I’ll get better. What about you?”

  Emma opens her mouth and nothing comes out for a full five seconds. Then a man walks over to them, and whatever Emma was going to do or say is swallowed up.

  “Excuse me. Are you Mr. Bell and Miss Lewis?”

  “We are,” Bell says.

  Emma just nods.

  The man smiles with closed lips, but it’s a reserved smile rather than a courtesy smile, and his eyes are kind. “I’m Special Agent Howard Carter. Ed Cooper was my friend and my colleague. Before he passed, he said I should try to get in touch with you. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  His handshake is firm and dry—a short, professional shake. He takes two envelopes out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

  “Now, I know it’s a little soon after St. Elizabeths—I’m aware that you’re both recovering. But there’s about to be some… rearrangements at the Quantico field offi
ce. I’m setting up a number of new units, specializing in different areas pertinent to Behavioral Science, and I’d like to continue the work that Agent Cooper started.”

  He hands them both envelopes.

  Emma squeezes hers—it’s heavy with papers. “Uh, Mr. Carter…”

  “No. Please.” He raises a hand. His palm is very pink against his black skin. “Don’t give me an answer just yet. I’d really like you both to take a while to look over these documents. And I imagine you need to take a while just thinking about whether this is something you want.”

  The bureau has never before asked Emma about the things she wants. Carter has surprised her, which is hard to do these days.

  “Anyway,” Carter says, “that’s the whole spiel. Thanks for hearing me out. There’s a card in the envelope with my number on it, if you need to call.”

  “How long do we have to think it over?” Bell asks.

  Carter is in the process of turning, but he turns back to answer. Now his smile is more relaxed. “Take your own sweet time, Mr. Bell. I believe you’ve both earned it.”

  He walks off.

  Once he’s given them some distance, Emma weighs the envelope in her hand. “Wow. Okay. That was… different. What do you think it means?”

  Bell watches Carter make his way back up the church steps. “I think it means the bureau is trying to headhunt us. Again.”

  “What if we don’t want to be headhunted?”

  “Emma.” Bell looks over at her. For a long moment, just the sound of the breeze in the leaves nearby. Then he tucks his envelope into his inside jacket pocket. “I don’t know what you want to do with this. I think I know what I want to do. But whatever you decide, you know where I am. Any old time, any crazy situation…” He looks away, and grinning properly now, looks back. “I’m saying you can call me, Lewis. I’m here if you need.”

  He sticks his hand out. Emma shakes it. His hand is warmer than Carter’s. Their fingers hold for just that little bit longer.

  “Travel safe,” she whispers. “Look after yourself, Travis.”

  “You too, Emma. Travel safe.”