Sleepwalker (31 page)

“So Delaney theorized,” Leonard interrupted during a pause, “that
Sparke
attacked his wife while sleepwalking. Very interesting. Now how come I didn’t think of that?” he said, grinning.

“We didn’t think of it because none of the clues pointed in that direction.”

“They still don’t. But then again Delaney didn’t have all the facts we have. Keep going.”

“This part looks real interesting. Listen to this.” He shuffled through a few papers, then read:

“1410’s somnambulism is special because it contains a series of complex behaviors that are initiated during fast-wave sleep, and not only results in walking during sleep, but creates a non-delusional pathway towards
psychoparasomnabulism
. Details are as follows:

1) 1410’s
parapsycho
-ambulation (walking or moving about with direct correlation to paranormal activity) occurs exclusively during sleep.

2) Through an intense detailed study of 1410, it is concluded that 1410 found no circumstance where he’d been able to arouse himself from sleep during an episode.

3) He retains complete amnesia following an episode, which bleeds quite strongly into his coherent, or waking state.

4) It seems apparent that most, but not
 
all of 1410’s ambulatory episodes typically occur in the first third of the sleep cycle.

5) I’ve found other medical and psychiatric disorders present, such as REM sleep behavior disorder or sleep terrors, but they do not account for symptoms or results of
parapsycho
-ambulation. These are universally independent, and act upon 1410 accordingly.

6) 1410 has suffered moderate levels of anxiety and depression, as well as total amnesia of the past prior to his daughter’s death (I still have not ruled out the possibility of post-traumatic stress disorder as a factor here).

7) There have been many instances where 1410 has left home for extended hours while sleeping, has committed various acts, and has returned with very little evidence to prove his whereabouts or actions.

8) Medications prescribed include
Ambien
,
Lorazepam
, Valium, Prozac,
Celexa
,
Ativan
, and Diazepam. All have come with little or no positive effect.

I must stress that although medications have been prescribed to counter anxiety and depression, sleep aids have also been utilized to strengthen and/or modify 1410’s sleep cycle in effort to foster the study of 1410’s unique situation.”

“Damn...you get that?” Kevin yelled.

“Uh-huh. Delaney used
Sparke
as a guinea pig in an experiment. The bastard used
Sparke
to test his own warped theories.”

“It goes on from here, big-time. Lots of medical jargon. Man, there’s tons of writings here. Gotta be a couple hundred pages all together. All on
Sparke
. And it’s all very detailed.”

“Seems to me that Delaney was writing a book. The text there is too concise, too illustrative to be notes to oneself.” In the distance Leonard saw beacons flashing. He took a deep breath as he slowed down, taking the street cautiously. “We’re here.”

He rounded the corner of Oak Place. Ahead police activity thrived. Cruisers closed off the street. A news van wound around a group of onlookers, moved on down towards the house where the crime had taken place.

“That’s where we’ll be next,” Kevin said.

“You up for it?”

“No.”

“Me neither. Let’s go.”

Unnecessary blank page?

The skies had cleared, dark clouds now gathered in the distance like retreating monsters, the stars and moon left behind to gently ignite the mountainous landscape. Under their peaceful lights, a very terrified Richard
Sparke
stood utterly motionless for what seemed an eternity, but was probably only three minutes--still a decent stretch of time, given the condemning circumstances. All this time he told himself that he needed to flee the scene as quickly as possible, but his feet were rooted to the ground, his legs incapable of guiding him anywhere for the moment. He could only stand and stare at the awful aftermath before him, the man in black, the god-damned entity that had haunted his dreams for so long, just moments ago executed by his very hand. But was he
really dead
? Sure, his physical self lay dead, horrendously twisted in the mud: an ironic parallel representation of what he’d undoubtedly planned for Richard all along. But what would happen when Richard went to sleep tonight? Who would come for him next?

No time to concern myself with this
, he thought as he peered down at his twin-nemesis--what Delaney liked to call him. Three-quarters of his head was gone, transposed into a four-foot coating of crimson pulp spread out on the muddy surface, glistening in the moonlight. His body was oddly bent at the waist, legs curled over one another, arms splayed out in front of him in false prayer. It was a nasty sight, one equally as brutal as the scene in Delaney’s office. Only here the act had been committed by the
real
Richard
Sparke
in self-defense, a motive that would hold no water at a time when he was eyed as the primary suspect in Delaney’s death, and Samantha’s death.

He recalled the moment while driving up here, upon entering these woods, when his mind wandered, lost in the horrific scenes he’d encountered: Delaney’s body, Samantha’s body, disgracefully mutilated. At that moment he’d had an odd premonition of seeing his own face bloodied and torn to shreds, a vision that unnerved him. Only now, upon realization of that portentous image, he found a strange solace overcome his apprehension.

It was only now that he realized he still held the shotgun. He dropped it, then looked around and located the pistol Pam gave him. Dizzied, he tucked it into his pocket and began staggering away from the scene, first upstream to the pond, then looping back along the upper edge in the direction he’d come from. He tried his best to call upon some newfound wisdom to guide the way, but the overwhelming episode had caused his mind to short-circuit, leaving him with only basic instinct to offer advice. First, he’d try to locate Pam. Then, get out of the mountains. That was the best he could come up with; it would have to do for now.

He raced into the woods, still feeling the need to keep himself under cover. He still had the police to contend with, and the din of all the gunfire would have attracted anyone within a mile of the area. Beneath his feet he felt the ground sloping, a good sign; he’d make it back to Pam’s car in about thirty minutes, if he kept a decent pace. He tried hard not to concentrate on the pain jutting from the injuries in his calf, shoulder, and head. Much too difficult though; blood still trickled from the wound between his eyes. As a distraction, he kept reminding himself that he’d no longer be hunted by the man in black, would no longer be at the receiving end of his taunts, his evil scowls, the insane eyes and nose and mouth that were the same as his, but extremely contorted with unexplainable anger.

He continued moving down the sloping gradient for twenty minutes, beneath the webbed branches of pines, following the sound of the stream. He kept looking back, still a bit paranoid of being followed, but knew that this time--for now--he was finally alone. Roots nearly tripped him up, his shoes slipping on the slick carpet of pine needles. At one point he needed to climb over a fallen moss-coated tree. The environment thickened. He pushed through a dense thicket of brush, stumbling over their tangles and uplifting roots. Finally, as the sound of the stream rose, the wooded area cleared a bit and through the trees he could see the wet, white surface of Pam’s car gleaming beneath the blue moonlight. He raced forward, ignoring the pain in his injured calf; he could feel the warm blood still seeping from the wound. Soon, he was free of the woods, in the place where it all started. He approached the car with feelings of utter salvation, as if it were an oasis of cool water suddenly meeting him in the middle of a great desert.

He peeked through the open window. The keys dangled from the ignition. Good. That would be his ticket out. Now, to get Pam.

He paced to the trough and peered over the edge. Here the angle and depth of the slope was much steeper compared to that of a half mile away. What made him think at the time that he could escape by driving his car down here? Looking at it resting on the bottom, he could see the water flowing midway across the driver’s side door. He positioned himself at a multitude of angles, bobbing and weaving, looking inside the car and seeing nothing. He couldn’t make out any details, even in the darkness at the floor of the car. Pam was gone.

He called her name. Nothing. He called louder, his voice echoing a bit in the cool night air. No answer. He decided it wasn’t worth drawing attention to himself. Someone might be nearby, investigating the source of gunfire.

He retreated from the trough and went to Pam’s car. Getting behind the wheel, he started the car up and ran the heat, sitting motionless for endless minutes as the blowing warmth simmered his aching bones. He closed his eyes, wanted to curl up and sleep, his body nearly shutting down as waves of exhaustion beset him. Finally, after catching his breath and his wits and convincing himself yet again that he needed to move on, he shook himself awake and reversed out from the area, the wheels skidding more than he wanted them to, tossing mud up everywhere. God forbid if he got stuck! He exited the car before digging himself in too deep, looked around, located some dry sticks from beneath the trees and wedged them under the rear tires. He got back into the car, reversed. Finally he was able to back up, all the way into a dry patch of ground beneath a tree, giving him enough traction to turn the car around. He went left then moved forward, back down the thin path that carried him way up into the mountains of
Bledson
State Park.

The soft ground and downward slope made the ride a bit smoother. The car still rocked and jostled some, sending darts of pain into his leg and arm, but he was able to endure the bumpy ride all the way to the bottom, to the gate, where the dirt path let out back onto the road.

Quickly he got out of the car, walked to the gate and opened it just enough so the car would fit through.

A blinding beam of light struck Richard in the face. It was like the shock of an awakening scream in the middle of deep sleep, or an unexpected bullet suddenly entering your body with no just cause.

He turned, an animal frozen in its glare. He felt his eyes bulging from their sockets in an unsuccessful struggle to spot the light’s source.

An intimidating voice rose up from beyond the encompassing glare.

“Put your hands in the air!”

The small town of Fairview had become a circus now that there was a deranged serial killer on the loose. It didn’t take long for the rumors to fly, and by ten in the evening, the local residents and even those in surrounding counties had all tuned in to the local newscast to find out which murmurs had been true, and which were gross exaggerations. Although the root of the story was now public knowledge, not much by the way of specifics had so far leaked out. Tomorrow would be a different saga altogether.

The whirlwind of activity at Samantha
Sparke’s
house made the very organized to-do at Delaney’s office seem like a classroom exam. Where a half dozen detectives and the very dependable George Washburn quietly dominated the earlier scene, here cops from other counties, news vans, scores of neighbors, and even a
firetruck
charged the night with a frenzy of commotion. There were more than a hundred people standing around, with more inside the house waiting for Leonard and Kevin to arrive.

After a cop from the Culver police force questioned their approach, Desk Sergeant Harry
Dunsworth
, one of Leonard’s fellow old-timers from the Fairview station, emerged from the house to give him a green light and let the two officers beyond the yellow tape.

Dunsworth
offered Leonard a bitter smile. “Reese is beside himself.”

“Give me some good news, will you...”

“Nothing good to tell. Killer made mincemeat of the victim. Reese keeps going on about her ex-husband who you apparently questioned earlier today--”

“Yeah, we did--”

“--but never filed a report on, or called in the visit.”

“All right--is it your turn to get on my case?”

“Take it easy, Len. Just ribbing you.”

They climbed the steps leading to the front door. Another cop Leonard didn’t know was watching the entrance. He smiled weakly as they entered the house.

“You damn well know that everything doesn’t get called in right away. We got caught up. We didn’t think it’d end up like this.”

“Even though he had blood on his kitchen floor?” The accusatory voice of Captain Edward Reese hit Leonard like a bullet, as did the dense odor of death in the air. He closed his eyes and nodded slightly, Kevin simply shrugging his shoulders as if waiting for Leonard to come up with a suitable reply for both of them.

“Captain...I can explain everything. Then you’ll understand.”

“Come here, Leonard.” Reese was stoic in poise, hands on hips, face ruddy and rigid as if he’d had quite enough of this trying experience. “It’s been a hell of a day. I, and you for that matter, have no energy to pore over any mistakes right now. There’s a killer on the loose. Based on your past and recent experiences with the man, you’re our best chance on bringing him in. You have the evidence from the doctor’s office. I’m sure you’ve looked everything over. You must’ve been able to dig up something on this guy, on his behavior, where we might start looking for him.”