Night Terrors (2 page)

Chapter Two

An hour before Chief Block called me, before I'd ever even heard of Wes Currim, I was in my therapy office on Forbes Avenue in Oakland, overlooking the Pitt campus. My last patient gone for the day, I was standing at my window, peering down through the gloom of early evening. Through the glistening white veil of the latest storm.

New snow lay thick as frosting over the parked cars, the roofs of restaurants, the bare-branched tops of trees. It piled in deep ruts, in exhaust-blackened furrows carved by the tires of salt-pitted trucks and delivery vans. By buses full of seniors and students and civil servants. By taxis gamely heading for the airport, and car-pooling SUVs carrying weary commuters home from work.

And as swiftly and relentlessly as the snow fell, that's how slowly and torturously the traffic moved.

Watching from my window five floors above,
I felt the residual emotions from my last patient's difficult session ease out of my body, to be replaced by a sobering image of myself in my reconditioned '65 Mustang, joining the slow-moving parade of traffic below. Making the long crawl across the Fort Pitt Bridge, and then up the recently-plowed roads to Mt. Washington. And home.

I sat down at my marble-topped desk. What I needed was a drink. Jack Daniels, preferably. Instead, what I had in my bottom desk drawer was two plastic bottles of Arrowhead water, a jar of instant coffee, a Snickers bar, and some aspirin.

Despite myself, I couldn't get that last session out of my mind. The patient was a young woman, Sophie Teasdale, a sophomore at Carlow College who'd been viciously raped behind a bar on the newly-gentrified South Side.

The assault had happened six months ago, but she'd only recently had the courage to report it to the police. An arrest was made, a court date for the perpetrator was on the books. After which, the wheels of law enforcement turned, the old gears clicked, and the machinery of justice moved on to the next crime, the next victim.

Except this particular victim was still traumatized by her brutal experience, showing the classic symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. Anxiety, depression, and frequent recurrent nightmares, as well as a heightened sensitivity to the possibility of future dangers.

So, as is part of my arrangement with the Pittsburgh Police, Angela Villanova, their chief community liaison officer, sent the young woman to me.

People like Sophie Teasdale are my specialty. I'm a clinical psychologist, specializing in treating the victims of violent crime. People who may have survived physically, but whose psyches were so damaged as a result of their horrific experience that they needed help.

Help coping with their fears, nightmares, profound feelings of powerlessness; even, for some, their shame, the belief that they perhaps deserved what happened to them. Or that they could've done something to prevent it.

Now, sitting
at my desk, making some quick notes about
Sophie's case
,
I couldn't help but think about my own experience with life-changing trauma. And about how so many of the symptoms that Sophie, and others like her, suffered, were those with which I was intimately familiar myself.

Especially tonight. January 6th. The Feast of the Epiphany. Like many another lapsed Catholic, though I'd fallen away from the faith and no longer attended Mass, the dates of the Holy Days are indelibly etched in my mind.

Historically, the Feast of the Epiphany marked the final day of the Christmas celebration, though most stores and homes had long since taken down the holiday lights and ornaments, the yuletide trees and the mistletoe.

January 6th. The same date, many years ago, when my wife Barbara and I had come out of a restaurant down at the Point, only to be mugged by some armed thug in a hoodie.

I'd been an amateur boxer in my youth—Golden Gloves, Pan Am games—so when the thief started to manhandle my wife, I tried to intercede. The gun, a 9 mm Glock, went off. Three quick shots.

The one that entered my skull kept me in the hospital for months. The two that entered Barbara's heart killed her.

For two long years after that, I felt like
my
life was over, too. Then, with help, I managed to move through the layers of remorse and shame—the paralysis of survivor guilt—to come out on the other side with a renewed sense of purpose. Something I'd rarely known before, having been wrapped up solely in my career, my ambition, my own needs and wants.

This coincided with the arrest and conviction of a notorious serial killer named Troy David Dowd. Dubbed “the Handyman” by the media, he'd killed and dismembered twelve people with pliers, screwdrivers, and other tools before his eventual capture.

One of his two surviving victims, a middle-aged single mother, had been so traumatized by her ordeal that the police were concerned about her welfare. Particularly Angie Villanova, who, in addition to her position in the department, was a distant cousin of mine. It was she who referred the woman to me, and it was this experience that led to my signing on as a consultant to the Pittsburgh Police.

I sat back in my swivel chair, bracing myself with a knee against the edge of the desk. I didn't have to turn my head to to hear—even feel—the push of the wind against the window glass. The storm was increasing in intensity, as though gathering strength from the approaching darkness of night.

What, I wondered, should I do? Go down to the parking garage, pull out onto the snow-draped streets, and fight my way through the log-jam of cars for home?

There was every good reason not to. The weather, the traffic, the potentially treacherous climb up the steep winding road to Grandview Avenue, my street.

But there was also one very good reason to make the trip: which was so that I could do what I always did on the night of January 6th. Go home, turn off all the lights, put on Gerry Mulligan's recording of “The Lonely Night”—a song he wrote with his wife, the actress Judy Holliday, shortly before her death—and then, quietly and without any fuss, get sincerely drunk. My annual ritual. For Barbara.

Though with every passing year, it was a ritual that seemed more and more pro forma. Mere habit. Having less to do with the person Barbara was, and more to do with some image of myself as loyal. Steadfast in my memory of her loss. The grieving widower.

I pushed away from my desk and stood. Stretched. Feeling suddenly exposed. Discovered.

After all, it wasn't as though I hadn't been involved with women since Barbara's death. Obsessively involved, in one particular case.

And even as I contemplated the journey home to honor Barbara's memory with booze and self-pity, wasn't I now attracted to another woman? Someone with whom I'd worked closely on a police investigation last summer?

These conflicting thoughts were still swirling around in my mind when the office phone rang, jolting me out of my reverie. It was a Detective Chief Avery Block, phoning from West Virginia, who said that he'd gotten my number from the Pittsburgh Police Department.

And that his call was urgent.

Chapter Three

The house loomed up out of the wash of the storm like a ship emerging from a North Atlantic fog.

“That's it,” Wes Currim said, gesturing with both cuffed hands toward the isolated structure. “Just pull up on the lawn there, Harve. Won't have so far to walk.”

Randall growled under his breath, but didn't reply.

Under Chief Block's baleful gaze, the sergeant manuevered the Range Rover across the uneven, snow-layered yard. I heard the tire chains crunch and pop as they struggled for purchase on the slick new snow.

“Stop right here, Harve,” Block said, the nose of our vehicle about a dozen feet from the sagging, mesh-enclosed porch. Randall cut the engine, but left the headlights on.

The house was low, wood-framed, its ranch-style contours blurred by the hurtling snow. Windows glistened dully with frost. Roof gutters sagged under the weight of packed old snow and the accumulation of fresh.

Then, unsure that I was seeing correctly, I leaned up and squinted through the windshield. Given the purpose of our journey, what I saw was as tragic as it was surreal.

The house was strung along its eaves and around its front windows with multi-colored Christmas lights, twinkling forlornly in the blur of the storm. There was even a lopsided snowman on the front lawn, three lumpy balls of dirty rolled snow, with sticks for arms and a wind-battered hat jammed on top.

Randall leaned forward in his seat as well, using the palm of his gloved hand to clear fog from the windshield.

“Are those Christmas lights? Damn!”

Beside me, Currim ducked his head between his thin shoulders and giggled.

“Okay, then.” Block sniffed once, which Randall somehow interpreted as his cue to get out from behind the wheel. Which he did, coming around to open the rear door for Currim.

A blast of frigid air hit me square in the face as that door opened. Grunting from the effort, Currim pulled himself out into the storm, helped to his feet by Randall's firm hand on his elbow.

I got out on my side, meeting Chief Block at the front of the Range Rover. Within moments, I could feel the cold wetness of the cascading snow on my coat. The bite of the wind on my cheeks.

Randall and Currim joined us, indistinct figures trudging up into the light of the twin highbeams.

I nodded at the house. “This your place?”

“Nah,” Currim said. “Belonged to my uncle, died a couple years back. Me an' my brothers use it all the time, though. For huntin', fishin' in the Shenandoah.”

“We don't give a shit ‘bout your life story, asshole.” Randall's shoulders hunched as he shoved his gloved hands in his coat pockets. “Right, Chief?”

Block didn't answer, just stepped a few feet away, boots crunching on the snow. Shivering, our breath coming in crystallized clouds, the three of us stood looking at him. Waiting.

Finally, Block turned to Currim.

“You do all this? The lights and everything?”

“It's Christmas, Chief. I always decorate the place for the holidays. In case my brothers and their wives wanna come up. Bring the kids.”

“Any o' the family come up here this year?”

Currim shook his head sadly. “Nah. Had the place to myself. No reason not to make it look nice, though. Right?”

Randall tugged on Currim's elbow again. Hard.

“Enough o' this shit. Where'd you bury Meachem? Out back somewheres?”

Currim pulled himself from the sergeant's grasp. “In
this
weather? You got any idea how hard the ground is, Harve? Hell, I'd break my back tryin' to put shovel to earth this time o' year.”

I stepped between Randall and Currim.

“Look, Wes, you brought us all this way. You said you wanted to give Meachem's family the opportunity to bring him home. Give him a proper burial.”

“And I meant it.”

Chief Block raised his head, like a bull roused from a deep slumber. His small eyes burned.

“Then show us where he is, Currim!
Now
. Or maybe
you
don't get to come back from here, either.”

Currim pivoted toward me. “You hear that shit? See why I wanted you along, Doc? To protect me. Make sure these fuckers don't do somethin' awful to me, just for the hell of it.”

“Nobody's going to hurt you, Wes.” I stared at Block. “Kinda defeats the purpose, right, Chief?”

I turned back to Currim. “Now why don't you show us where Ed Meachem is, okay?”

The prisoner shook some snow from his sleeves and straightened his shoulders.

“Sure,” he said casually. “Why the fuck not?”

I saw Randall's hands ball into fists, but he kept himself in check. Currim indicated the porch, and then led the way up the three wide, snow-carpeted steps.

The front door was unlocked, and though the interior was dark and cold, it was a relief to be out of the storm. No lights were on, so Randall pulled his departmental flashlight from his belt and clicked it on.

Meanwhile, Chief Block reached for a wall switch and flipped it up and down. Still no lights.

“Sorry, Chief.” Currim smiled. “Most o' the bulbs went out a while back. Never got around to replacin' 'em.”

Block's only response was a thick grunt, a throaty sound threaded with as much weariness as disgust.

Guided by the flashlight beam bouncing jerkily down the darkened, wallpapered hallway, the four of us headed into the bowels of the old house. The air thick, heavy as a shroud. Stale smells. Muffled sounds. Barely discernable shapes—a wicker chair, a ceramic-bowled table lamp—emerging from the shadows, as if summoned from some bleak, distant past.

“Holy shit…” Randall's voice was barely a whisper. The sergeant was clearly spooked. And, I thought, with damned good reason.

The old wood floor creaked beneath our feet as we moved forward. Carefully, more hesitently now. Beyond the beam of the flashlight, there were only shadows.

I felt my chest tighten. The hairs on my forearms were standing up inside the sleeves of the parka.

“Let's go through here, okay, guys?” Currim leaned against an opened door at the end of the hall. “I think you'll find what you're lookin' for in here.”

Randall spoke again under his breath. “Prick.”

Ignoring him, Currim grinned and stepped into what appeared to be the living room. The three of us followed.

Randall's light swept the room, revealing the shapes of old stuffed chairs, a coffee table, and a cold, long-unused fireplace. A broad, stained area rug, bunched at the corners. Brass floor lamps, with fake Tiffany shades. All straight out of the fifties.

Beyond the single, wide picture window, the storm raged on. Rattling the dust-coated blinds tied to opposite sides. Through the ice-encrusted glass, I could just make out the uneven yard, scalloped with snow. Some spindly trees, pencil-stroke branches bending in the wind.

“What's the idea, Currim?” Block planted his feet, bristling. “I don't see nothin'.”

Currim frowned. “Must be the wrong room. My bad.”

Randall lifted his flashlight like a cudgel, its light flaring off the ceiling. I thought he was going to bash Currim's head in. God knows, I wanted to do it myself.

“You better not be jerkin' us around here, Wes!” Randall took a menacing step toward the prisoner. “I mean it, asswipe, I'll just—”

“I have half a mind to
let
ya, Sergeant.” Chief Block sighed heavily, eyes narrowing. “I'm done playin' games, Currim. Where the fuck's Meachem?”

Currim snapped his fingers. “Damn,
now
I remember! Okay, fellas…to the kitchen!”

Before anyone else could move, Currim strode from the living room and back out the door we'd come in. The rest of us were right on his heels, Randall training his flashlight on Currim's back.

The prisoner made an abrupt turn, momentarily vanishing into the darkness. Then, with equal suddenness, a room light flickered on, to our left.

With Randall in the lead, Block and I went through this second room's opened doorway. The uneven light was coming from twin ceiling fluorescent bulbs, only one of which was working. Sputtering, flickering on and off.

Like an eerie, slow-motion strobe. One moment, everything was cast in an ash gray, sepulchral light. Objects appeared, were given outline. Then, just as suddenly, they disappeared, swallowed up by a cold, hungry darkness.

Things seen, then unseen. There, then not there.

It was the kitchen, as Currim had said. Even in the blinking, uncertain light, I could tell that every appliance was old, long-used. The small formica table in one corner, with its twin lattice-backed chairs, another 50s relic. As was the patterned tile floor.

Where our eyes were drawn. Riveted. Straining to make sense of what we were seeing. Images out of a nightmare, bathed in a sickly light for a single, frozen moment. Then veiled once more by darkness.

Currim, standing in a far corner, folded his arms.

“Told ya,” was all he said.

What was left of Ed Meachem was revealed to us in flickering patches of light. Scattered about the kitchen floor, like pieces of a blood-soaked jigsaw puzzle.

A spray of body parts, in no particular pattern. An arm, curled like a dried leaf. The jagged stump of a leg. Hands severed at the wrists. Feet at the ankles.

“Dear God in heaven,” Block muttered.

Suddenly, the sole working fluorescent went out, with a loud, sizzling pop. Darkness enveloped us again.

“Holy shit!” Randall cried out.

I whirled, trying to gauge his position from the sound of his voice. Then I saw his flashlight beam plume up, flitting wildly against the dark.

“Steady, Harve,” I heard the Chief say.

Breath coming in short, staccato bursts, Randall brought the light down and directed it shakily around the room. Poking into shadowy, stubborn corners. Searching, as though compelled against his will, for yet more horror.

He found it.

In the center of the room, a naked male torso lay marinating in a dark pool of old blood, blackening at the edges. Nearby, strands of human entrails were curled around chair legs, or looped like coils of garden hose.

Jesus Christ
, I thought.

Randall started to retch then, struggling not to vomit. As I felt the gorge rising in my own throat.

But it was Chief Block who spoke, voice a rasp.

“Wes, you sick bastard, why'd the fuck you do this?”

“That's for me to know and you to find out.”

Randall, still gasping, swung his light back and forth across the tile floor. “But his
head
…Where the hell's Meachem's head?”

The same question had occurred to me, at almost the exact same moment the answer did.

Without a word, I turned and raced out of the room. Slamming once against a table in the dark, but never breaking stride. Chief Block calling after me, voice raised in surprise, anger.

I ignored him as I ran down the darkened hallways and through the opened front door. Pounding off the groaning, wood-planked porch, out onto the yard. Slipping and stumbling over the slick, dead-white earth. Unmindful of the bitter cold, the hurtling snow.

Until I stood, breathing hard, eyes stinging from the storm, staring at the snowman in the middle of the yard. The three balls of snow, piled awkwardly into the form of a man. The small snowball at the top, wearing the floppy hat.

Except it wasn't a snowball.

It was a head.

Ed Meachem's severed head.