Sleepwalker (17 page)

“You check out the plates?” Leonard asked.

“The car is registered to Pamela Bergin, of 338 Culver, Presidential Studios. Washington building, apartment 5A.”

“So she lied then.”

“Unless someone else drove her car this morning. Which is doubtful, given what we know about
Sparke
and his relationship with her. And the witness descriptions.”

“I agree.”

“So then what about the blood?” Kevin asked. “She had no injuries.”

“None that we could see.”

“You think she might have hurt her leg, or another part of her body?”

“Anything’s possible, but I think there’s a better chance that a third party was involved. Someone neither
Sparke
nor his girlfriend wanted us to know about. That would explain the inconsistencies in their stories, and it strengthens our theory of earlier, that there’s more to this story than meets the eye. I don’t know about you Kevin, but it seems to me that
Sparke
and Pamela might be in cahoots on something big and secretive, to a point where they find no alternative but to silence this mystery third person for fear of having their story leaked. They keep him or her a secret from us, hence keeping the truth of their story under wraps. Also, it appears that neither one of them wants us to know they’re involved with the other, wouldn’t you think?”

“Maybe. It all sounds a bit far-fetched though, if you ask me.”

“I know, but so did the whole incident with his ex-wife two years ago. You know, regardless of how small or far-fetched our theories are, we more than likely have something real heavy on our hands here, at least as far as Fairview is concerned. I’ve seen more violent, and as far as I can immediately tell, more unlawful activities in my time. But I’ve never--and I think I can say this now--I’ve never seen anything quite so, well, mysterious.”

Kevin’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s put aside the fact that at least one and probably both of them are lying. Now, do you honestly believe there’s more to this whole story than what we’re skimming off the surface? I mean, for all we know Pam is simply scared that she might have to pay a fine for acting like a lunatic this morning. Or spend some time in jail for reckless endangerment. And as far as
Sparke
goes, it appears that he’s lying because his girlfriend didn’t have any injuries about her.”

“Absolutely.”

“So the big question is, why?”

“Beats the shit out of me. Look, the blood had to come from
someone
, right?”

Kevin nodded. “Of course.”

And it wasn’t from Pam, as far as we can tell.”

“Right.”

“So there
has
to be a third person. Someone who drove Pam’s car. Unless Pam lied and
was
at
Sparke’s
condo, along with this third person, and something went violently wrong. Maybe the third person got hurt and bled all over
Sparke’s
kitchen floor, and then Pam fled the scene...with the
other person’s blood
on her.” Leonard peeked into the
Sentra
but didn’t see any blood anywhere. “Then again, maybe not. Interior looks clean.”

“This is getting crazy, Len.”

“Either that, or we’re real bored and have nothing better to do but over-scrutinize everything.”

They walked away from the parking lot, each of them silent and trying to postulate all the incidentals and possibilities in their heads. In mid-thought, Leonard peered up at the Washington building. He noticed a young woman with long brown hair and sunglasses staring out at them from the glass atrium interconnecting the Washington and Lincoln building. She ducked away before Leonard could discreetly point her out to Kevin.

It sure looked like Pamela Bergin.

“Better to over-scrutinize,” Kevin said, “than to miss something really important. Wouldn’t you agree?”

Leonard nodded, thinking,
Yes Kevin, I agree. And I also think, like you, that this is getting crazy
. He picked up the pace, eyes on the atrium. No one was there now, but still he felt as if eyes were on him. Scrutinizing him. “Let’s go see where
Sparke
heads to next.”

Silence ensued. Utter silence.

No longer feeling the restrictive grip of the man in black, or hearing the whistling noise, Richard attempted to come to his senses. He could feel his own body, the muscles weak and twitching as if sore from a formidable task; the skin cold and rife with gooseflesh; limbs trembling as if stricken with Parkinson’s disease. He could feel the sweat pouring down his back, his chest, his face. He was doused in perspiration.

He struggled to open his eyes.

A dull light met his flickering gaze.

He swallowed a dry lump in his throat, unsure of what to make of the scene before him. It was familiar, yet so strangely foreign...

The room...it’s returned to me. Okay...let me take some time and think about this. I was enveloped by a hypnotic vista, a subconsciously created dreamscape filled with monotone backdrops. Unless I’m mistaken, it appears that my waking world has now returned to me. I am once again inside Doctor Delaney’s office. I see the walls, the bookshelves. I can feel the carpet beneath my body. Yes...I am back in the waking world. I’m not under hypnosis anymore...

Or am I?

Was I sleepwalking again?

Lying on the carpet, Richard stretched a hand out. He felt the coarse wool fibers beneath his palm. Through his blurring sights he could see his hand making gentle sweeping motions against the rug.

He stopped. Something felt
odd
.

Warm. Thick. Tacky.

He picked his hand up. Looked at it.

Even through his obscured vision and the dull lighting he could see the blood. His entire palm was coated in it. Dark, crimson, dripping.

He tried to move, managed to fidget his arms and legs a bit. Remaining in a crab-like position, he wriggled forward, a few inches at first, then a few feet. The wet warmth was beneath him now, he could feel it on his chest, his legs, saturating his clothing. His fingers pressed soaking-wet circles into the carpet. His vision cleared more and more as he slowly collected his wits. He smelled a pungent odor, sharp and metallic-like. Blood. Lots of it. It made him queasy. He felt it all around him, as if he were a human island in some wicked
plasmal
sea. For a moment he wondered if he were dying, finally a victim of the man in black’s aggression. But strangely he felt little pain, only a soreness on his neck and scalp. So he could reject that dire outcome. He was still alive, left virtually uninjured, pained and tired from the perils encountered while under deep hypnosis.

Out of habit Richard addressed his conscience even though he was fully aware of his inner persona’s demise.
If I’d been sleeping all along or under hypnosis, then the man in black should be gone, now that I’m awake.

No answer came to him, of course. He didn’t even know if he’d reached a fully awakened state yet. Strange, to feel this way, as in the past he’d always retained an odd, intuitive awareness following the dreams of blue light: an extra-sensory perception that heightened his senses, stimulated his intuitions until they faded an hour or so after waking. Here things were different, as if the absence of his conscience had changed more than just his ability to communicate with himself.

All he could perceive, feel and smell and taste, was the blood.

He continued forward, searching out the coffee table separating the sofa and Delaney’s chair. Grabbing hold of the table’s edge, he pulled his body up into a sitting position, muscles and tendons stretching and cramping, bones popping in protest of the move. He looked around the room, saw the bookshelves, saw the doctor’s desk...

Saw the dead doctor. Butchered, stabbed repeatedly in the face, the chest, the abdomen. Entrails swelled from his gut in a balloon shape, ready to burst. His mouth was gaping, a final scream frozen in its moment of death. A dense blood-tide spread out below his twisted body, flooding the carpet from the coffee table to the bookshelves, a distance of eight feet, maybe more.

Richard gagged, tongue parched, acid tears burning his eyes. He bit down on his hand in attempt to hold the creeping gorge back, but pulled it away in utter repulsion upon tasting the doctor’s blood. He looked down the length of his body. It was coated in red, ringlets of plasma oozing from the carpet at his knees. He felt his entire body stiffening, hyperventilating, perhaps going into shock as his sanity dangled by loose threads. His mind desperately sought the power to hunt his extinct conscience, found only the fortitude to force his body into helpless flight.

Wobbling, he stood up, eyes glued to the glistening corpse.

That’s when he saw the knife. The murder weapon, doused in blood, purposefully placed in plain sight atop the doctor’s groin--an attempt perhaps to mock poor Richard. It was the same knife the man in black held against Debra’s throat--his own throat--only minutes earlier during his hypnotic dream.

An eight-inch steak knife.

Black handle...

Holy mother of God.

It was his knife--the same one Pam used to attack him this morning.

The one missing from his kitchen.

They took an alternate route back to Main Street. Instead of traversing the winding neighborhood roads, Leonard drove from the Presidential Studios down Culver to Park Avenue, which led straight into Main. Once there, they double-parked along the stretch of road by Delaney’s office, needing to wait only three minutes before a young woman came to retrieve her car. Hughes smiled and waved to her and she returned the friendly gesture, slipping behind the front seat of a blue Accord and smiling back before driving away.

Leonard paralleled the gray cruiser into the spot. “Gonna have to put a leash on you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Can’t help but flirt with all the young ladies, eh?”

“Len...I’m single. I
can
.”

Leonard grinned. “Yeah, I guess that‘s what single people do these days.” He paused, eyeing the entrance to Delaney’s office.
Ah, to be young and single again. But is that what I really want? Janice loves me. My son Greg, I suppose he loves me too. Damn! There I go again, commiserating over the happy everyman’s life waiting for me at home. What’s so bad about it? I have my escapism here at work, and finally, today, something really exciting to investigate. If things are as mundane as usual when I get home I could always lose myself in a good science fiction novel, perhaps take on 2001: A Space Odyssey again. I’ve only read that one twice. Or maybe, just maybe, I could force myself to spend some time with my family in front of the television. They would really appreciate that. Oh...I very well know I shouldn’t fantasize about the things I know won’t happen. I have to hole myself up in the office tonight, and wait for Pamela Bergin’s phone call. Not a bad alternative, I guess. I could spend the quiet time trying to figure out why I feel so down on myself. The family will have to wait. Again. They’ve waited so long anyway, what’s another day going to matter?
He added, “So what’d you think of Pamela Bergin?”

“We went over that. She’s a liar.”

“I’m talking looks-wise.”

Kevin smiled. “Len, Len, you very well know she’s a knockout.”

“Your cup of tea?”

“Safe to assume she’s any man’s cup of tea. I could never have a relationship with her, though.”

“Why not?”

“She’s got a cat.”

Reminded of Kevin’s allergic fit, Leonard twisted his body to face his partner. “Oh yeah
sneezy
, I forgot about your little reaction there. But she said she didn’t have one.”

“She lied about that too. I’m telling you, I only get sneezes like that when I’m around cats. She most definitely has one.”

“I didn’t see one.”

“Me neither. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t outside. Or hidden away. They leave their dander all over, and that’s what makes me sneeze. It happened earlier, after we left
Sparke’s
place. You even said she probably carried its dander over with her.”

“Maybe the people that lived in the apartment before her had a cat?”

“Hmm...possible. But if she’s really been living there for four months, a single cleaning would have taken care of that. You can’t tell me that she hasn’t cleaned the place since she moved in.”

“It didn’t look very clean.”

“No, it didn’t. But it seems unlikely that she didn’t give the place a quick once-over before settling in.”

Leonard shrugged, eyes glued to the building’s entrance. “Which means...?”

“Which means she has a cat...and lied about it.”

“So she’s a pathological liar, then?” Leonard wasn’t sure where Kevin was heading with this.

“Unless she had a good reason to lie about the cat.”

Leonard laughed. “You’re the one that said my theory about a third person was far-fetched. Now you’re telling me Pamela Bergin purposely deceived us about having a cat? Why?”

Kevin shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe there aren’t any pets allowed in the place, and she freaked out when we unexpectedly came knocking. Didn’t you notice how she hesitated before letting us in? She probably saw us through the peephole and quickly hid the cat in a closet.”