Night Terrors (22 page)

“Yes. Unfortunately.”

No doubt my late wife's murder, and how I fell apart afterward, figured prominently in the bureau's file on me.

I was also struck by this sudden illumination of his inner world, this unexpected disclosure of feeling. Whether due to simple exhaustion, stress, or the lingering effects of his punishing night terrors, Barnes was letting me see a rare, unalloyed vulnerability. Giving me a window into his carefully crafted solitude.

“Not that I ever let her know how I felt when she was alive,” he went on. “Hell, she used to say she wondered if I ever felt
anything
…”

I shrugged. “In my experience, sometimes it's men like that who feel more deeply than anyone else.”

“Or else that's just therapeutic bullshit.” He straightened in his chair, as though physically pulling himself back from his past and its sorrows. “I warned you, Doc, don't try building some lame-ass clinical rapport with me. Last thing I need is therapy.”

“Maybe.” Bringing some edge to my own voice as well. “But what you
do
need is a shower. And a change of clothes. I have some in my bedroom closet that might fit. Now that you're officially my house guest, please feel free…”

A brisk smile. “At last. Providing something I can actually use. Won't they kick you out of the Fraternal Order of Therapists for that?”

“Damn, and I just renewed my membership…”

He wearily got to his feet. As he headed for the door, I called after him.

“Just one thing, Lyle. Something to think about in the shower.”

He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded.

“Shoot.”

“You said you chose this place because you knew Alcott's people would never think to look for you here. But a smart, experienced agent like yourself could've found a hundred different places to hide out. Yet you picked
my
house. Makes a guy like me start to wonder.”

He grimaced. “Let me guess: Unconsciously, I
wanted
your help. Or maybe it's because your house represented some kind of psychological safe haven. A refuge for my poor, shattered psyche.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself. So you concur?”

His eyes narrowed.

“You're not gonna give up, are ya, Rinaldi?”

“Probably not. And, believe me, you don't want me to. Not if you ever want to sleep again.”

Chapter Thirty-six

While Barnes was in the shower, I poured myself a second black coffee and considered the situation.

Of course, the logical—and appropriate—thing to do was to call Neal Alcott immediately and tell him I'd found his missing retired profiler. After which Barnes would be hauled off to an undisclosed location and kept under constant guard. For his own safety, naturally. Also to spare Alcott and the bureau any further embarrassment.

As it happens, I don't always do the logical or appropriate thing. As a therapist dealing with patients, I tend to work on a case-by-case basis. Clinically speaking, there is no one-size-fits-all approach to doing therapy. Every patient is different, as is my subjective experience of them. And theirs of me. In my view, good therapy is only possible in this kind of relational context.

Now, thinking about what to do with Lyle Barnes, I felt a similar desire to serve our relationship first. Which meant I truly believed I had the best chance to help him with his night terrors by maintaining his trust. To someone with his views concerning loyalty, turning him over to Alcott would be perceived as a betrayal. It would also be the end of any possibility of my treating him.

Besides, I told myself, Lyle Barnes was probably as safe here as he'd be anywhere. If the FBI hadn't considered looking for him here, why would the shooter? My treating Barnes wasn't an official part of the investigation. It was at the personal request of the director. Leaks or no leaks, it was under the task force radar. Off the books.

I drained my coffee without tasting it and rinsed the mug in the sink. Now the next thing to consider was how to approach treating the stubborn, arrogant bastard. As a stubborn, arrogant bastard myself, I suspected trying the conventional forms of treatment would prove fruitless.

For one thing, aside from medication—which Barnes had firmly ruled out—the usual treatment modalities ranged from ineffective to marginally useful. Since science wasn't sure what caused night terrors, developing approaches to dealing with it has been difficult.

Most experts believe the condition is caused by a sudden disruption in the central nervous system, usually triggered by stress, sleep deprivation, or substance abuse. With such a broad range of potential causes, treatment options are limited to—in addition to proper medication—hypnotherapy, stress management techniques, and good old talk therapy. That is, as long as you have something to talk
about
.

And there's the problem. Patients suffering from garden-variety nightmares can usually recount the content of their dreams, which perhaps can lead to interpretation. Often, once the meaning of a patient's dream becomes clear, the therapist can aid the patient in working through its various themes. The patient may find support in leavening the anxiety and dread left in the nightmare's wake.

Unfortunately, people with night terrors can't find the same solace, for the simple reason that, unlike nightmares, they don't occur during REM sleep. Typically, night terrors erupt during stage four of the sleep cycle. Which means the sufferer doesn't remember the dream images, giving both patient and therapist very little to work with.

I put the mug back up in the cupboard and looked out the bay window above the sink. The sun was brighter now, its rays sprinkling the sluggish river below with glitter.

Leaning over, I turned the tap and splashed cold water on my face, hoping to energize my own sluggish thoughts.

There were two ways to address Barnes' symptoms: I could urge him to explore with me the dynamics of his childhood, which, I suspected, was the source of his loner, crusader-against-evil persona. Perhaps here lay the seeds of the horrors that invaded his sleep. The problem with this approach was that it would take too long, under the present circumstances. Barnes was not in conventional, long-term therapy with me. I also was convinced he'd never agree to looking at early family material.

The other approach was to get him to open up about his years as a profiler. His thousands of hours of contact with the most heinous and notorius serial killers. Sociopaths who felt no remorse, no empathy. Who killed for reasons running the gamut from the deeply delusional to the coldly systematic. From the disturbed to the grandiose.

I returned to my seat at the table and looked at the files Barnes had so carefully arranged there.
His work
.

Yes, given who he was and what gave him meaning, the best way to address his nocturnal demons was to get him to open up about the real-life demons with whom he'd spent most of his career.

Assuming, of course, I could persuade him to do so.

***

I heard Barnes leave the bathroom and pad down the hall to my bedroom. I could also hear him muttering aloud for my benefit as he shoved hangers around in my clothes closet. Since I out-weighed him by about thirty pounds, and was slightly bigger in the chest, he'd probably have to hunt carefully for clothes that wouldn't be too loose. Luckily, we were both equally tall.

While he looked for something to wear, I went into the front room and hauled out my laptop. Sitting at the rolltop desk, I waited for it to boot up. I had planned to take a shower myself right after Barnes, but a sudden impulse made me want to look at the YouTube video that Mr. and Mrs. Greer had made about their missing daughter.

In moments, I'd loaded it and began to watch. It was as painful to view as Angie had described, yet was so blatantly prejudicial against Wes Currim that I was amazed it hadn't been taken down, disclaimer or not. When it ended, I glanced at the view counter below. Almost eighty thousand hits now.

Following that same inexplicable impulse, I reached for the landline phone and called information in Wheeling, West Virginia. I was directed to City Hall, then Records, then Passports. Ten minutes of my life I'd never get back.

When I finally got a clerk on the line, I identified myself as Sergeant Harry Polk, Pittsburgh PD, and gave the detective's badge number. Luckily, the clerk was too young, bored, and incompetent to question my authority.

“I'm lookin' to find out the status of Lily Greer's passport application,” I said, making my voice as gruff as possible. “I understand she applied some years back.”

“You got a date of birth, social security number, date of filing?”

“Listen, buddy, I got a shield and twelve years on the force. I also got a computer and can watch videos on YouTube. Maybe you can, too?”

I could practically hear him thinking on the other end of the line.

“Wait a minute…Lily Greer's that girl in the video, right? Went missing? Her parents cryin' and moanin' about it on YouTube?”

“Her
distraught
parents, you unfeeling moron, who have friends in high places. I happen to be one of 'em.”

“Meanin' what?”

“Meanin' I think all of us involved in lookin' for Lily deserve some cooperation. For Christ's sake, she's a Wheeling girl.”

“Yeah, I know. Buddy o' mine went to Montcliff High with her. We were just talkin' about it the other day.”

“Okay, so here's what you do. I'll hold on the line and you call Montcliff High. Identify yourself and have them look up Lily Greer's DOB and social. Tell 'em you're transferring records to digital or something like that. They'll give you what you need if you tell 'em you're calling from City Hall. Then come back to me.”

“And this is a police thing, right?”

“Do we gotta go through that again, or should I just call one o' my friends at Wheeling PD and make sure you get ticketed every time you drive your fuckin' car?”

“Okay, okay. Give me a minute.”

The kid put me on hold, which was just as well, since my Harry Polk impersonation was making my throat hurt. Not that I really needed to sound like him for my little trick to work, but for some reason it added verisimilitude. Or at least I thought it did.

Five minutes later, the clerk came back on the line.

“All right, I got the stats on Lily Greer.”

“Now use 'em to pull up her passport application.”

Another minute went by, and then he was back.

“Well, I got what you wanted, Sergeant, but it don't make any sense.”

“Don't strain your brain, junior. Just tell me what you got.”

“Lily's application was approved, and her completed passport arrived here at the office. According to the records, when she didn't show up on the appointed date to collect the passport, somebody from the office called her. Left a message on her answering machine. But she never came by to pick it up.”

“You mean, the passport's still there?”

“I'm sittin' here, lookin' at it. Damn, she takes a nice photo. Ain't easy to do for a passport picture.”

“But why would someone go to the trouble of applying for a passport and then not come get it?”

“Don't ask me, man. You're the detective.”

He was still chuckling at his own wit when I hung up.

At the same time, I heard Barnes coming down the hallway from the bedroom.

As I waited to greet him, I thought briefly about the phone call. Why hadn't Lily Greer picked up her passport?

When I'd learned she'd applied for one, I assumed that her lover, Jack Currim, already had his, and that she would need one too if they were to run away together.

Overseas, that is.

But what if they decided against that? Maggie Currim had decribed her husband as a conventional, small town, blue-collar guy. Hard to imagine he'd be that comfortable spending the rest of his life in some busy European metropolis, or even some isolated country village. Lily was also a Wheeling native, and, by all accounts, another typical small town type. Would she be willing to give up the country she knew, with its familiar habits and culture, to live in some foreign land?

Suddenly, I didn't think so. In fact, I was convinced otherwise.

Jack Currim and Lily Greer, I now felt with a strange, unaccountable certainty, were still here. In the USA.

But where?

 

 

Chapter Thirty-seven

Newly shaved and scrubbed, and somewhat swallowed up in a Pitt sweatshirt and jeans belted tight at the waist, Lyle Barnes came into the front room and sat opposite me on the sofa. With a pair of my thickest woolen socks completing the ensemble, he at least looked warm. If not happy.

“I couldn't find any
adult
clothes that even came close to fitting.” He tugged at the sweatshirt's sleeve. “A man of your stature ought to have a closet full of dress suits. Christ, you wouldn't last two days in the bureau.”

“I'd have to agree. But probably not because of my clothes.”

He grunted sourly, then sat back against the sofa.

“Okay, Doc, you've had time to think while I was in the shower. Are you gonna turn me in to Alcott?”

“Nope. But that option's still open.”

“Good man. Now, get me up to speed on where things stand. First of all, I assume the powers-that-be have had enough sense to shut down the tri-state Internet grid?”

“They just did. What made you assume that?”

“Logic. So far, the killer has been one step ahead of the task force. He knew where Claire Cobb was being held, and when she was being transferred. He knows when witnesses are about to be interviewed—”

“You mean, Vincent Beck? In Steubenville? His murder made the news, too.”

“Yeah, but it didn't get the coverage Claire Cobb's death did. Probably because she was one of the killer's potential targets.”

“Tell me. The media's having a field day guessing the names of those on the shooter's hitlist. Not to mention all the amateur crime junkies online.”

Barnes frowned. “Forget about those rubes.
And
the goddam media. The point is, it's clear that the killer has access to task force intel. And if he's getting it from the tri-state interface, that means—”

“The killer is a cop. Or FBI.”

“Not necessarily. Lotta people have access to the interface. Cops and agents, sure, but also administrative staff, communications, tech support, civil authorities. That's federal
and
local.”

“Besides,” I added, “there's a chance it's not even the killer himself. Maybe someone who has access to the grid is working
with
the killer, supplying him the intel.”

Barnes scratched his chin, pink from being freshly shaved. “My gut says otherwise, Doc. The guy who wrote those letters—the guy methodically working down his hitlist—doesn't strike me as a team player. He's a loner.”

Like you?
I thought, but didn't say.

“Well, I'm no profiler,” I did reply, “but I'm inclined to agree with you. We're looking for someone plugged into the grid himself. Or at least he
was
. It's probably been completely shut down by now.”

“Which means he's working blind.”

I nodded. “Plus, Alcott has all the potential targets in a bureau safe house somewhere in Ohio. I wasn't exactly sure what he meant, but I assume he's not talking about some hotel.”

“No, we have a number of underground facilities across the country. More like bunkers than anything else. Way off the proverbial radar.”

As if on cue, my cell rang. I gave Barnes a puzzled look, then picked it up. It was Neal Alcott.

“Thought you might like to know, all the potential targets are sequestered. Even your buddy Dave Parnelli.”

He coughed roughly, clearing phlegm. Sounded like his cold had migrated to his chest.

“I'm betting Dave didn't go quietly.”

“You got that right. And he's pretty unhappy with the accomodations, too. He asked for you to send him a cake with a bottle of good whiskey hidden inside.”

“Tell him I'm baking it as we speak.”

He hesitated. “Look, Doc…over the past few days, I've…well, I sorta changed my mind about you. You're okay. So I don't want you to think this is personal.”

“What are we talking about, Neal?”

“Well, now that the search for Lyle Barnes has been called off, your services won't be needed. You're out of this thing, as of now.”

“What about the director? Isn't he still worried about his old Academy buddy?”

“Sure, but right now his feelings about Barnes are not a priority. He's signed off on letting you go, Doc.”

“Agent Barnes might still turn up some day, right?”

“We'll cross that bridge when we come to it. Since Ms. Cobb's murder, this thing has gone supernova. Every available local cop and federal agent not working some other major case has been added to the task force. The media is killing us on this, which means the pressure is coming down hard on the director and Pittsburgh PD. From the mayor, the governor. Not to mention
Ohio's
governor. Which means it's coming down hard on
me
. Hell, I may be gone before the end of today.”

“Sorry about that, Neal. Really.” And I meant it. “You've busted your ass.”

He sniffed mightily, then coughed again. “Whatever. Anyway, thank your lucky stars that you're outta this shitstorm. Maybe I'll see ya someday on the other side.”

We hung up. I could tell Barnes had heard enough of the conversation from my end to fill in the rest.

“And they still don't have squat, do they?” he said without preamble.

“My guess is, not much.”

“Figures.” He stretched out some kinks. “That's 'cause they rely too much on procedure and modern forensics.”

“What do you mean?”

Instead of answering, Barnes got up and went into the kitchen. He returned a moment later with the files, now squared into a tidy stack once more.

“It's the files.” He re-took his seat on the sofa. “All the new forensics on the letters Jessup received in prison, presumably from the shooter. The ones signed ‘Your Biggest Fan.' No fingerprints, of course, but the tech guys have identified the make and weave of the paper, the color and make of the typewriter ink. What kinda typewriter was used. They've even done algorythmic studies of the writer's sentence structure, vocabulary, syntax. Then there are the standard psych evals of the shooter himself. Ya know, like trying to dope out someone who'd be both grandiose and sycophantic enough to call himself Jessup's ‘biggest fan.' Plus reams of psychometrics and personality assessments.”

“And…?”

“And it all adds up to nothing. Because they didn't make use of their most valuable asset.”

“Which is…?”

“They forgot to show the letters to old, gray-beard profilers like myself. See, I recognize the style of the letters. I
remember
.”

“Remember what?”

“The guy…the shooter…sending letters to a serial killer? Doc, he's done it before.”