Come Out Tonight (9 page)

There were these occasional phone calls from Ryan, most of which I couldn’t piece together since all I could hear was the occasional snippet of Sherry’s conversation and none of Ryan’s.
 
Then I found him in her apartment, as I said before.
 
It looked like they were in a clinch, but Sherry said it was all about work.
 
And, yeah, they looked so
intense
, I guess it could have been an argument. Or not.

By then I could tell Sherry was worried about something.
 
She wouldn’t tell me what exactly, just that the Institute was on her case not to talk about something.
 

“Bastards,” she said.
 
“Not only did they make me give up my rights to Somnolux, but now they’re taking away my rights to speak out about it.”

“Speak out about what?”
 
I asked.

I was sorry I asked.
 
Sherry went on for about twenty minutes about how the brain is a machine which works to keep order, and to keep chaos at bay.
 
How the brain’s evolved to limit its own stable states to waking, sleeping and dreaming.
 
That there are more possible states: states into which the brain doesn’t naturally fall, but could....

Why the Institute would stop her from talking about this I couldn’t figure, but Sherry would get pumped up like this sometimes.
 
I figured either she’d get it out of her system, or it would eventually make sense to me.
 
Neither one happened this time.
 
Eventually, I got a word in.

“I don’t get it, Sherry.
 
What are you talking about?”

“I’ve been hearing these strange cases of people kind of running amok.”

“Amok?” I laughed.

Sherry took a deep breath.
 
“I think Somnolux may be causing side-effects, but the Institute won’t acknowledge it.”

“What side-effects?” I asked, no longer laughing.

“Automatisms.
 
Parasomnias....But I wouldn’t be surprised if this weren’t just the tip of the iceberg.”
 
She was still on a tear, thinking faster than she could talk.

“What the hell’s automatism?” I demanded.

“It’s where the body does some complex action without consciousness.”

“Without consciousness.
 
You mean...like Zombies?”
 
I laughed; I couldn’t help it.

She gave me a weak smile.
 
“Yeah.
 
You could put it that way.”

“Wow.
 
Somnolux turning people into zombies?”
 
This was hysterical.

“A few cases.
 
Ryan says it’s a drop in the bucket.
 
He says that in a hundred million prescriptions, a few cases like this have got to show up, if only randomly.
 
Nobody can prove that Somnolux caused them.”

“But you think you can.”

“I think we should try.”

I got it, finally.
 
Sherry wanted to study it - prove the side-effects one way or the other, but that would just call attention to the whole issue.
 
Then, whether they proved the drug innocent or guilty, Somnolux would be toast.
 
“And the Institute says no?” I asked.
 

Sherry sighed.
 
“Yeah, the Institute says no.”

*
   
*
    
*

Over the next month, Sherry was getting moodier and moodier.
 
Either she didn’t come over, or she came over late.
 
I couldn’t get her on her cell, because she stopped carrying it.
 
She said she didn’t want to talk to anyone.
  
When she was here, she wouldn’t talk or she’d pick fights with me.
 
I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn’t say.
 
I figured it was this whole business about her job, so I just didn’t go there, letting her work it out in her own way.

Then one day she stomped upstairs and demanded that I stop taking Somnolux.

I don’t know.
 
It just seemed unreasonable.
 
Here I was, sleeping like a baby for the first time in years.
 
“Why?” I said. “Just because you’re not getting any profit out of it?”

That did it.
 
I thought she was going to throw a punch at me.
 
“Is that what you think?” she cried.

I backtracked right away.
 
“No, but, hey, it’s a good drug.
 
You’re the one who got me started on it.”

“I know,” she said, sadly.
 
“But I’m worried about you.”

“You know, I hate to say this, but I’m beginning to side with Ryan on this one, Sherry.
 
A couple of cases of automatism, or whatever you call it, in a hundred million people?
 
Ya gotta be overreacting.”

“You don’t think you’ve been flying off the handle a lot lately?”

“You talking about me or you?” I asked, amazed.

“You.
 
You mean you forgot?”

“Forgot what?” I said.
 

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Sherry cried.
 
“You don’t even remember that you forgot something.”

“Whoa, Sherry.
 
Now you’re not even making sense.”

We stood glaring at each other.
 
“So you won’t stop taking it?” she said, hands on hips.

I thought about it for two seconds.
 
“No. Don’t think I will.”

“Fine.
 
I’m going home.”

“Aw, Sherry.
 
That’s just dumb.
 
You’re leaving because you can’t have your way.”

“Hey, I’m tired.
 
I had a hard day at work.”
 

She opened the door.
 
There, standing in front of her, was Ryan, bent over double and panting from running the three flights up.
 
“Sherry,” was all he could get out.

“What are you doing here?” she said.

“I tried...to get you on your cell, but... it rang and rang.
 
Then...I tried to call your land line, but... your voice mail picked up.
 
I ...figured you were home but not answering, so I went over to your place.... Knocked and knocked.... All I could figure...was that you were here.”
 
He panted a few times, leaning against the wall.

 
“How do you know where I live?” I asked.

Ryan put his hand out as if to say, “Wait.
 
Let me breathe.”

I wanted to tell him to go breathe somewhere else, but I didn’t. “Well?” I demanded finally.

“I gave Ryan your address months ago,” Sherry said.
 
“In case he couldn’t reach me at home.”

Ryan straightened up.
 
“I’ve got to talk to you.”

“Here?” I asked, but he was already pushing his way in.

“Could you...go in the bedroom or something?” Ryan asked me.
 
“I’d like some privacy.”

“In
my
apartment?”

“Yeah, could you?”

Sherry was nodding, so I went down the hall to the bedroom, but I left the door open.
 
If he was going to make me hide in my own apartment, I sure as hell was going to listen in.

“Sherry,” I heard, then some mumbling.
 
Then, “But it was your idea...”
 
Then more mumbling.
 
This wasn’t going to work.
 
I opened the door all the way and pushed my head through.

“But you can’t,” I heard Ryan say.
 
“It’s professional suicide.
 
You know what the Institute thinks of your going to the media.”

“You heard about the politician who crashed his car into a barrier?”

“No, but...”

“They did their best to hush it up.
 
He had taken Somnolux.
 
No other drugs, he said.”

“Oh, I know who you’re talking about.
 
The guy who had just come out of a drug treatment center.
 
You can’t blame that on Somnolux.”

“Ryan, you know there’s more.
 
Those dissociative disorders....It’s got to be studied at least.”

“Look.
 
You know I sympathize with your position...”

“You?
 
Hah.
 
You’re with the Institute all the way.
 
I wonder, Ryan, if they haven’t given you a cut of the profits, the way you always side with them....”

“Um, no way.
 
I never...”

“They have!
 
They bought you!”

“Sherry, listen to me.”
 
There was a long pause.
 
Then he continued, lower. I had trouble hearing him, so I crept further out into the hall.
 
“They haven’t bought me.
 
I’m on your side.
  
I’m just saying that if you go to the press, you may never work again.
 
Do you understand me?”

“Did they tell you to say that?”

“No.
 
And what’s more, it’s not just you.
 
You’re going to ruin it for me, too.”

“Ah, it’s you you’re worried about...”

“...And I won’t let you do that...”

There was long intake of breath, then a hoot of laughter from Sherry.

“Is that a threat, Ryan?
 
Is that a threat?
 
Well, you can tell your...puppet master that I don’t care if they fire me.
  
I’ll do what I have to do.
 
Now get the hell out!”

There was the scraping of chair bottoms and footsteps crossing the room.
 
I backed up, grabbed the door and pulled it closed.
 
By the time I heard the door slam, I was lying on the bed, feet crossed, studying the Op-Ed page of the
Times
.
 
The bedroom door opened slowly, and Sherry came in, pale and trembling.
 
She sank down on the bed, her back to me, shoulders hunched.
 
I crept over to her side of the bed and put my arms around her.
 
I didn’t bother to ask any questions; I had heard the whole thing already.
 
And that was two days before the morning I found Sherry lying on the floor, half-dead.

DONNA

Jackman called again to ask if there were any new leads. I said not much, again.
 
He became incensed, asking what I do all day.
 
“What I do all day?” I shouted into the phone.
 
“How about six current cases and a desk full of paperwork?”
 
I almost asked him what
he
was doing all day – or all night was more to the point – since I had seen him buzzed into that brownstone on East 63
^rd
, but I restrained myself from mentioning it.
 
Never give out information if you can help it, is my detective’s motto.
 
Anyway, I wondered whether Jackman was pulling the wool over
my
eyes, trying to put me on the defensive by calling and accusing me.

Meanwhile, however, he was actually saying something interesting.
 
“What did you say?” I broke in.

“About what you do all day?” he said.

“No, no.
 
The thing after that.”

“About Sherry telling me early in the week that her parents were coming for her birthday?”

“Yeah, that.
 
When was her birthday?”

“Uh.
 
The day before she was attacked.
 
That is, if she was attacked in the early hours of the next day.
 
Because if she was attacked before midnight, that would mean she was attacked on her birthday.
 
I mean…”

“April 30 was her birthday,” I said, to confirm the obvious.

“Uh.
 
Yeah.”

“And her parents were planning on flying out to celebrate.…”

“Yeah, to have dinner with her.
 
That’s why I didn’t expect her to be coming over.
 
She said it would be better if she saw them alone….” He interrupted his own jabbering for a second.
 
“Is this important?”

Duh, I wanted to say.
 
Instead, I said, “Just curious.
 
My brother’s birthday is also April 30
^th
.”

Our conversation wound down after that.
 
Not that I would tell him this, but I don’t have a brother, and because of that important fact, his birthday was unlikely to be April 30.
 
Police officers are supposed to tell the truth.
 
In fact, that is one of the factors that theoretically separates us from the criminals we pursue.
 
But it happens sometimes that a little white lie is necessary to distract the other party, who doesn’t really need to know the truth.