Night Terrors Page 5

  Billy’s laugh was short, respectful. “Agents Green and Zarnicki are right on our tails. I made sure we didn’t lose ’em on the highway.”

  “Good man.” Alcott swiveled in his seat, gathering up the files. Almost as though I wasn’t there.

  “You gonna tell me the rest, Alcott, or do I have to wait till we get there? Wherever the hell that is.”

  Alcott shrugged. I could tell he was glad our journey was near its end. He was the kind of man whose ambition literally radiated from his body, which made him seem constrained if trapped too long in one place. Especially a small place, with a guy he didn’t have much use for.

  As though indulging me, he flipped open the folder once more.

  “Sure, we have time to wrap this up. Earl Cranshaw lived in Steubenville, Ohio, in a split-level with his wife. No kids. He was 47, a drinker, member of the Elks Club. Had a temper, which is no surprise, given what he did to Jessup at the prison. Had received a couple prior reprimands from the warden, for using excessive force.”

  “Any leads as to his killer? Possible motive?”

  “Nothing the local cops could find. The marriage seemed solid, if not exactly a love match. Cranshaw had a few buddies he played pool with. Though he cut off all contact with his former colleagues at the prison as soon as he left the place. Bad memories, I guess.”

  “Gambling debts? Some jealous husband?”

  “No evidence of anything like that. Still, him getting whacked so soon after that last letter arrived…I mean, sure, it might’ve been a coincidence, but—”

  I regarded him cooly. “C’mon, nobody believes that…”

  “Well, if they did, they don’t anymore. Which brings us to this very morning, Doc. Like I promised.”

  I waited.

  “It’s been kept outta the news because we can’t find the sole next-of-kin. Apparently she’s on a hiking trip with her boyfriend. Naturally, we don’t want her hearing about it before we can contact her.”

  “Who are we talking about?”

  “Helen Loftus. Mother dead, no sibs. She’s a junior at Carnegie Mellon, and her father was visiting her for the weekend. She lives with a roommate in a dorm, so her old man stayed at a Hilton in Oakland.”

  “What happened?” Though I’d already guessed.

  “Her father was shot in the hotel parking lot at six thirty this morning. Getting into his rental for the drive back home. One of the hotel valets heard the shots, came running, called 911. The vic died in the ambulance on the way to Pittsburgh Memorial.”

  “So…who was he?”

  “Ralph Loftus. Judge Ralph Loftus of Cleveland, Ohio. The judge who sentenced John Jessup to life in prison.”

  ***

  The streets of Braddock, Pennsylvania, were narrow and poorly-lit. Even along the main business strip. Probably due to the overwhelming number of closed and boarded up shops and restaurants.

  We drove in silence through the no-longer-pumping heart of the small town. Like so many other coal and steel towns in western Pennsylvania, Braddock was a victim of a changing economy. A changing world.

  Once a thriving, growing community, the steel mills that provided jobs to its multi-ethnic population had slowly closed down over the years. Which meant that, to add to the area’s distress, strip mining for coal in the nearby hills no longer provided employment for families who’d toiled at the task for generations.

  “The motel’s up here on the left, sir.”

  Billy again, dutifully reporting our progress to his boss. His voice drew my attention past his shoulder to the windshield, the defroster spreading rivulets of spindly ice across its expanse.

  No doubt it had grown colder, but thankfully the snow, at long last, no longer fell. What was left was the cold, vacant night. An arch of heavy clouds blotting the stars.

  I glanced over at Neal Alcott, who sat tapping his fingers on the armrest between us.

  “First, two weeks ago, the guard who killed John Jessup is shot,” I said at last. “Then, this morning, the judge who sentenced Jessup to prison. So the Bureau figures it’s the work of the same man, carrying out the promise he made in that last letter.”

  “That’s the way we see it.”

  “A serial killer avenging the death of another serial killer?”

  His fingers stopped tapping. “The guy who shot Cranshaw and Judge Loftus is no serial. Just some garden variety murderer, with a hit list. It’s personal.”

  “Fine distinction. The point is, I assume you’re worried that he hasn’t finished his mission.”

  “Probably not. That’s why we’ve contacted the ADA who prosecuted Jessup, the jury foreman, the Cleveland cops who bagged him…”

  “What about Jessup’s defense attorney? The killer might blame him for providing an inadequate defense.”

  “Maybe.” A sardonic smile. “We could end up with a helluva long list…”

  We came to a stop at a deserted intersection, then turned down a side street. Like nearby Allentown—whose economic collapse was memorialized in a pop song by Billy Joel—Braddock reminded me of nothing so much as a frontier ghost town. Foreclosed homes, shuttered family businesses. Streets needing repaired. Only the bars, neon lights buzzing against the hollow night, showed signs of life.

  Then, just past the city limits, I caught sight of a low, brooding building off to my right. Easily twice the length of a football field, its knobby, uneven black shape stretched like a fallen giant against the foothills.

  It was a steel mill. Or once had been. Abandoned now. Unworked, from the look of it, for many years. Smokestacks rose from its angled roof, no longer pumping clouds of soot into the sky. The blast furnaces that once burned like suns long since gone cold, dead.

  Unlike Pittsburgh, whose seventeen miles of steel works had been torn down, victims of the economic cataclysm that ultimately revitalized the city, towns like Braddock had no reason to dismantle their dying mills and factories. Nothing was going to take their place.

  By now I could see the blurred contours of a Motel 6 loom up out of the patchwork night. It was a squat, two-storied building half-buried under the past three days’ snowfall. As we pulled into the lot, I noticed there were only a few other vehicles parked there, noses angled toward the lights of the motel, as though for warmth.

  Alcott and I got out of the car, stepping into a bitter cold that seemed to cling, unyielding, like a carapace. Billy shut off the engine and joined us.

  Moments later, the lights of the trailing black sedan swept the lot. The two field agents parked, then crunched across the snow to meet up with their boss.

  “You three wait in the lobby a while, okay?” Alcott’s gloved hand indicated Billy and the two agents. “Probably got a vending machine in there. Maybe get some coffee.”

  “Fine with me,” Billy said. “Long as it’s warm, I don’t care where we go.”

  One of the other agents nodded gravely. Then, without another word, the three men went into the lobby, a small, well-lit room under a snow-draped canopy.

  Agent Alcott turned to me. “Let’s go, Doc.” Breath coming in frosted puffs.

  I followed him up an exterior staircase to the second floor, through a heavy access door, and down the corridor. The air in here was warm, close, prickling on the skin after the brutal chill outside.

  Walking briskly down the corridor, our footsteps muffled by the stiff green carpet, we passed closed doors on either side of us. Old, worn, paint-flecked. Somehow I sensed—knew—that the rooms within were all empty.

  Then, approaching the end of the hall, I heard—

  “What the hell?” I froze, turned to Alcott.

  It was coming from the last door on the right. The harsh, penetrating sound of raw terror. Choked, gasping screams. The keening of someone in intolerable anguish.

  “Jesus Christ!” Heart pounding, I ran to the d
oor. Grabbed the doorknob. It was locked.

  Alcott was at my heels. I whirled, only to be met by his curiously flat stare.

  “Who’s in there, Alcott? Who the hell is it?”

  “Agent Lyle Barnes, Doc. Your new patient.”

  Chapter Nine

  I slammed my shoulder against the thin wooden door, twice, before it buckled. Swung free on its hinges.

  I quickly stepped inside, Alcott right behind.

  The room was small, with cinder block walls and heavy drapes cloaking the windows. Matching lamps glowed faintly on either side of the king-sized bed. The smell of damp wool, old cigarette smoke. Sweat.

  On the floor near the bed, a young man in long sleeves and a tie was on his back, winded. Flustered. Struggling to get up on his elbows.

  But it was the man on the bed who drew my gaze. In a t-shirt, trousers, and black socks, he sat upright, kicking free from a tangle of rumpled sheets. He was tallish, with long ropey arms and thin, sweat-matted hair. Wide, haunted eyes stared out at the room as though into the maw of hell.

  It was his screams we’d heard, now silenced. Replaced by desperate, labored gasps. Mouth chewing empty air.

  No one spoke for half a minute. Until the younger man managed to scramble up from the floor. Turning to Alcott with a sheepish look.

  “Sorry, sir. He started yelling and crying out in his sleep, and when I went to calm him—”

  The man in the bed interrupted him. “I woke up, and shoved Agent Stoltz off me. Like a wild man.”

  Breathing more calmly now, he shook his head. “It was my fault entirely, Neal. Stoltz was just trying to help.”

  The man ran his fingers through his thatch of hair.

  “Man, I fucking hate this shit.”

  Agent Stoltz warily approached the man’s bedside.

  “On the other hand, sir, you did get some sleep. I checked the clock. About three hours.”

  Alcott spoke up then. “How long had Agent Barnes been awake before that, Stoltz?”

  “Almost thirty hours. Frankly, sir, I don’t know how the hell he does it.”

  Lyle Barnes, stirring in the bedcovers that cocooned him, gave a short, hard laugh.

  “That’s easy. Gallons of coffee, and a stubborn streak a mile long.” His voice went flat. “Besides, anything’s better than what comes when I’m asleep. What I see…”

  He averted his eyes. I could tell that the admission—of his fear, of his unquestioned dread—was not easy for him. It suggested weakness, vulnerability.

  Not the qualities, I guessed, that most people usually associated with him. As he gathered himself, straightening his hair and clothes, I got a better picture of the veteran agent his colleagues at the FBI knew. Saw the intelligence in his face. Its intimation of relentless focus.

  Lyle Barnes looked to be in his mid-sixties, lean and spare. As if his body were as no-nonsense as his personality. At least under normal circumstances.

  I hadn’t said a word since entering the room. But suddenly Barnes glanced over at me, perhaps registering me for the first time.

  “And who are you? Another suit from Quantico sent up to see how the crazy guy is doing?”

  Alcott spoke again. “This is Dr. Daniel Rinaldi, Lyle. The trauma specialist they told you about.”

  I took a measured step closer to Barnes.

  “That’s right. Though it doesn’t take a psychologist to see how the crazy guy is doing. Not too goddam well, looks like.”

  Barnes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grunted suspiciously at Alcott.

  “This is the guy that’s supposed to help me? Keep me from losing my shit every time I shut my eyes?”

  “The director has a lot of faith in the doc here.” Alcott tried on a confident smile. “I worked with him myself, last summer. He didn’t embarrass himself.”

  Barnes squinted at me. “Hell, that’s high praise from Agent Alcott. The brown-nosing prick rarely likes anyone.”

  Standing beside him, I could see Alcott flush with anger out of the corner of my eye. But he kept his cool.

  Meanwhile, Lyle Barnes had climbed out of the bed. He stood at the side table, sifting through a collection of over-the-counter medicine bottles until he found some Excedrin. Without looking up, he waved an impatient hand at his young caretaker.

  “Okay, Stoltz, you’re off the clock. Go get some shuteye, or a drink. Go get laid, I don’t care. Apparently, me and Dr. Rinaldi have an appointment.”

  With a quick nod, Stoltz took a jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on. This was followed by a huge black overcoat, a fuzzy scarf and tan gloves. Finally, he grabbed up a box of Ricola Throat Lozenges from the room’s sole dresser bureau.

  “You all set, Stoltz?” Alcott’s voice was a growl. “We wouldn’t want you to get the sniffles.”

  Shame-faced, Stoltz quickly buttoned up and strode from the room. As he scurried out, he bumped into the door, barely hanging from its frame, sending it swinging.

  Barnes straightened, swallowed two Excedrin tablets with water from a tumbler.

  “That goes for you, too, Neal. Last thing I need is for anything I say to the doc to get back to the director.”

  Alcott stiffened momentarily, about to respond. I cut him off.

  “Agent Barnes is right. If he’s to be my patient, then he’s entitled to the confidentiality afforded anyone I treat. Now I know you tend to play fast and loose with that concept, but—”

  He raised a hand in mock surrender.

  “Hey, I get it. None of my business, anyway. I was just supposed to put you two together in a room. Which I did. Far as I’m concerned, it’s Miller Time.”

  Barnes regarded him wryly. “Thanks, Agent Alcott. Though it occurs to me that Dr. Rinaldi and I might be more comfortable in a different room. One with a door, maybe?”

  I smiled. “To be fair, that’s on me. Sometimes I just go on impulse.”

  “Not a bad trait,” Barnes replied. “When appropriate.”

  The retired profiler and I exchanged careful looks. I realized our relationship—such as it was, or would turn out to be—had already begun.

  Oblivious, Alcott looked at both of us with a pained expression. It was clear he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “C’mon, let’s use one of the other empty rooms. We bought out the whole floor, anyway. Might as well make use of it.”

  Chapter Ten

  Lyle Barnes stood in front of the oval wall mirror, straightening his tie.

  “I guess you’ve already figured out why the director reached out to you.”

  “You’re suffering from night terrors, and he wants me to treat you. To help you manage the symptoms.”

  Barnes peered curiously at his own reflection in the dusty mirror. Squared his shoulders. Then turned back into the room, facing me.

  I was on the corner sofa, in a room that was an exact replica of the one we’d just left. Though Barnes and I were the only occupants, I knew there was an agent stationed outside the door. Probably Green or Zarnicki.

  In his smartly-done tie and pressed suit jacket, Lyle Barnes looked every inch the veteran FBI agent. Freshly showered and shaved, hair carefully combed. He came over to sit opposite me on the corner of the still-made bed.

  “What do you know about night terrors?” I asked.

  “Probably as much as you, Dr. Rinaldi. If not more.”

  I didn’t doubt it. FBI profilers usually held at least a master’s in psychology, with the added benefit of years of practical experience. Particularly with the more extreme forms of pathology, expressed primarily in homicidal—or at the very least, criminal—behavior. The kind of on-the-job training that most conventional mental health professionals never received.

  With that kind of knowledge and experience, wedded to a cop’s mentality, a veteran profiler like Bar
nes made a formidable agent. However, unlike how they’re often portrayed in TV and film, most bureau profilers put in more hours doing research, building potential suspect protocols, and conducting post-conviction interviews than chasing serial killers down deserted alleys at midnight.

  Although, given the steely glint in his eyes as he sat forward on the bed, it wouldn’t have surprised me if Barnes had done his fair share of the latter. Back in the day.

  “Just to fill you in, Doctor,” he began, kneading his knuckles, “I’ve got the classic symptoms of night terrors. Wild, inchoate dreams filled with horrific images. Though not always distinct images. Shapes, sounds. Pervasive feelings of dread or imminent danger. Until I wake up screaming. Heart and breathing rates elevated. Adrenaline, too, which means cortisol levels off the charts.”

  He’d done his homework all right. Unfortunately. I’m always concerned when a patient feels too comfortable with the clinical lingo. It creates in him or her a false sense of control, of mastery over the situation. Which only means a greater sense of shame and disillusionment when the next episode occurs. As it almost inevitably does.

  “How long have you had these symptoms?”

  “About six months, on and off. Started about a week or two after I retired from the bureau. Though they’ve been worse in the past month.”

  “Since the murder of Earl Cranshaw, the prison guard who killed John Jessup?”

  A grim smile. “I knew you’d go there first, Doctor. Too obvious, if you ask me. And remember, I said they started months before Jessup’s death.”

  “So you see the symptoms being keyed more to your retirement than to Jessup’s murder.” I paused. “But he was your last case. The last serial killer you put away.”

  “Hey, I’m not ruling anything out. Your interpretation makes sense. But let’s not put it in concrete, okay?”

  “I never do.”

  A cool silence grew between us. Probably the first of many, I thought.

  There’s a lot of truth to the saying, “Doctors make the worst patients.” From my own experience in therapy, I can attest that this is especially true for therapists. Now I was beginning to think the adage probably applied equally well to FBI profilers.