Night Visions (12 page)

He turns to face the window again. “All right.”

It isn't quite enough, but it will have to do for the time being, she thinks. She tells him about Max, tentatively at first. The suicide. Catherine's erratic behavior. He sits on the edge of the bed with both hands in his lap. He looks tired. Whether it's from his trip to Salt Lake, the fact that they haven't found Catherine yet
or her, she can't tell. Behind him, from the twentieth floor, the city appears silent and safe.

“Do you buy it?”

“The suicide? Not really.”

“Neither do I. I'll call the Durham police first thing in the morning and review the autopsy reports.”

“I also have these.” She hands Frank copies of the letters she sent to Don.

“German.”

“They're letters written by Johann Goldberg.”

“Where did you get—”

“I went to L.A.”

“
What?
” He almost drops them.

“I flew down to look at the Goldberg archives at UCLA. I read through his other letters and asked Don to translate these. Now get this.” She continues breathlessly, talking through his surprise. “The count who commissioned Bach to write this piece was obsessed with immortality. He believed God was punishing him for his attempts to create everlasting life on earth.”

“Punishing him?”

“Yes, by taking away his ability to sleep.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“This piece was playing at two different crime scenes. Both Catherine and Phebe had trouble sleeping—”

“So did Father Morgan.” Frank turns suddenly. “I talked to his mother today. She said that he had been complaining about insomnia for almost a year.”

Samantha looks at him, nodding. “I think the killer is an insomniac as well.”

Frank pauses. “Do you think he's getting treatment here in the city?”

“No. Though my guess is that he's tried treatment, but it didn't work.”

“And this is some kind of payback?” Frank tilts his head slightly.

“I don't know, but it could explain why he identifies with the count's anger. The frustration, the rage of not being able to sleep.” Her words have become more impassioned, and she wonders if she is talking about the count or herself.

Frank's cell phone rings. She takes the letters from his hands, studying them instead of his face. Frank jots something down on a notepad. He hangs up.

“We've gotta go.”

“What?”

“That was Detective Snair. They've found Catherine.”

NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
FEBRUARY 28, 1990
3:23 A.M.

Sitting on a small incline of uneven rocks, Butner gazes at the muddy waters of the Mississippi. Behind him the French Market is quiet. No one clamors to buy herbs and spices. No jazz ensemble plays for tips. Only a few late-night lovers and intoxicated college students pass along the nearby walkway.

He fidgets uncomfortably in the thick, humid air, sweat covering his skin with a sticky film. He tosses a pebble at the river, waits for the sound—
plunk
—then picks up another. It disappears high in the fog before falling.

Plunk.

He wishes it were clear enough to see the stars. He knows only one constellation, Orion, which he learned about for a sixth-grade field trip to the city observatory. His teacher, Sister Mary Virginia, assigned each student a constellation, and one at a time, they stood in front of the class at the observatory and read notes
from index cards prepared at home. Butner still remembers everyone listening to him as they looked into the sky, sipping hot chocolate with marshmallows and shifting restlessly on their blankets. The grass was wet. The night air cool. He pointed out the red shoulder of Betelgeuse, three belt stars, and a mighty sword hanging from his side. Orion, the ruthless hunter. Club poised, ready to strike the prey already dangling from his outstretched arm.

As Butner pulls back his arm to fling another pebble, he hears a crunching noise behind him. Rocks shifting and scraping together. Someone is walking toward him.

He has been running from the police and himself for two months. It all started with Christina. He only meant to scare her, to make her feel something for him. Over and over, he has replayed that night—the way his fear became anger when he touched her, the vengeful fury in her eyes, and Orion snickering in the dark sky overhead. Something changed that night. Something took control of him.

At least, that's what he tells himself.

He's afraid to believe the alternative—that it was always in him. Unlike Orion, he never wanted to hurt anyone.

The heavy footsteps suddenly stop, and a deep, hoarse voice with a Creole accent whispers: “I need somethin'.”

Butner tosses the pebble and sits silently.

Plunk.

“I said I need somethin'. For the pain.”

“Pain is all I have.”

He steps closer. “Gimme your wallet, man.”

“I don't have anything.”

In a slow, hypnotic voice, the stranger says: “Either you hand it to me, or I take it from you.”

For the first time, Butner turns his head. A bulky dark figure stands a few feet away. “You can't hurt me. No one can.”

A switchblade snaps in front of him, and the man grabs But
ner's arm and shoulder, pulling him to his feet. The edge of the blade points at his throat.

The robber is about to speak when something slices the side of his neck. He gasps, pressing the wound with his left hand and staring in disbelief at the small knife in Butner's fist.

Butner moves to strike again, but the man is faster, stronger. He stabs Butner in the chest with a forceful thud, knocking him onto his back. Stones slice his skin, and his head splashes into the water. Before Butner can move, the man falls on top of him, squeezing his throat and holding him underwater. Butner's mouth fills with the muddy sludge of the Mississippi.

He stabs the man again and releases the knife. It juts out of his body like the lever on a slot machine. Butner pushes him to the side, and the man rolls onto his back. Butner flings himself on top of him, but the man catches his wrist with one hand and clutches his throat with the other. Butner, suspended above him, sees his own blood spilling onto the man's face and throat. A knee suddenly smashes into his ribs—propelling him onto the rocks a few feet away.

On his back, Butner looks into the cloudy sky and gasps for breath. Everything feels still, and he realizes that something is different. Strength drains from his body like fluid out of a syringe. A blackness is coming, darker than the river and the night sky. Too dark for any constellation to appear. But he looks up anyway. For a light, for something to give the darkness meaning….

6:41 A.M.

John Pouliot thought he was either dead or seriously shit-faced. Lifting his left arm out of the cold, foul-smelling water, he suddenly remembers that he didn't pass out from another bender
but from a fight with some wacko. Yet when he touches his sore neck, the wound feels small. The bleeding has stopped. He sits up slowly and sees a body next to him. It's lying motionless on its back, its head mostly submerged in the river.

Pouliot reaches around to touch his own rib cage. Pulling up the damp, sticky shirt, he sees a gash several inches below his armpit. Red and black from coagulated blood. It must not have been as deep as he thought.

Crawling over to the body, he lifts the head out of the water and shakes him. “Hey!”

There is no response.

“I don't believe this.” Pouliot stands up and looks around at the empty shoreline. “White people always make things so fucking difficult.”

Most of them get scared off by his deep voice and size. White tourists usually stay clear of blacks, and once you fake a Creole accent, they'll hand over whatever it takes to make you go away—cash, watches, trolley tokens, underwear. New Orleans already spooks them with its cemeteries and all that voodoo stuff. Add a few French-sounding words, throw on a necklace with chicken bones (his are from Kentucky Fried Chicken), and voilà—easy money. But this crazy guy didn't even flinch. He just sat there as if he were waiting for Pouliot to do something.

Pouliot checks the man's pockets quickly. A money clip with almost three hundred dollars.
Maybe my luck is starting to change after all,
he thinks. He kicks the body a few times and shoves it the rest of the way into the river.

“Take that, you dumb bastard.”

Pouliot is a reasonable man. He's never wanted to hurt anyone, but the fool stabbed him first. He stumbles up to the road, listening to the voices and drunken laughter of the Quarter. He doesn't see anyone along Decatur and hurries through the nar
row streets, away from the straggling tourists and shopkeepers. He moves in the shadows, making his way home. He just wants to sleep, to rest for the game tomorrow night. It might be his last chance.

MARCH 1, 1990
8:34 P.M.

Pouliot wakes up suddenly and looks at the clock—less than an hour till game time. Surprised that he slept so long, he jumps out of bed and hurries to the bathroom. In the mirror, he studies the red marks on his neck and the cut above his rib cage. Both look smaller than he remembered. No open wounds, only dried blood on his clothes. Staring at his reflection, he remembers dreaming of a woman in a bathtub. Upside down, one hand impaled against a tiled wall, the other against Plexiglas. She opens her eyes and screams.

That sound stays with him as he takes a shower, grabs a cold piece of pizza from the fridge, and leaves for Thomson's place.

 

“My wife wouldn't let me go. So it's either here or we don't play at all!”

“No need to get pissy, Thomson. Sure you don't want me to run over to the market and pick up some tampons first?”

“Fuck off, Baxter.”

“Hey, let's get started.”

“Keep your panties on, J. P. I've never known anyone in such a hurry to lose.” Baxter cackles.

Pouliot fidgets impatiently. He needs to win big tonight and watches carefully as Thomson deals the cards.

“I can feel it, boys. My luck's changing.”

“Twelve hundred in the hole with Toomer, another two grand with me. I'd say you're just about shit out of luck, J. P.”

Thomson and Toomer haven't cashed in or broken any of his fingers, because they want more than money from Pouliot.

“Suicide kings wild, aces high.”

They are low-time, high-impact crooks. Their newest scam involves causing accidents, faking injuries, and collecting on the other drivers' insurance. At first, they used their own piece-of-shit cars. Now, they “borrow” from neighborhood guys who owe them money. After stuffing the trunk or hatchback with Styrofoam, pillows, cardboard, and comforters for padding, they pile people in the backseat and head out to Highway 10. As soon as they see an expensive car, they pull in front of it—usually in the fast lane—and slam on the brakes. The other driver is always deemed at fault, and the insurance company cuts checks to Thomson or Toomer (depending on the day) and the other injured parties in the car. T and T, as the neighborhood guys call them, always take a percentage of the backseat money as well.

If Pouliot doesn't win big tonight, he'll be their next crash-test dummy. They'll take him out tomorrow night, smash up his car, and collect the entire settlement check. Depending on the accident, they could make five times what he owes them. A good day's work.

Pouliot starts with a full house, two queens and three sevens, but loses to Baxter's four tens. The next two rounds go the same way. He's getting decent cards but not good enough to win.

When he was eleven, Pouliot and the other boys in his neighborhood were climbing an oak tree, trying to see who could go highest. Pouliot rose above the others, and for a moment, he won, looking down at the boys who clung to branches below him. Then he fell and broke his arm.

When his father took him to the hospital, he said, “Some
people are born risk-takers”—he looked at his son, who was wincing and tearing in the passenger seat—“even if they're losers.”

From that day on, bad luck followed Pouliot like a shadow. Mostly small things, but small things add up. Gambling never made him feel like a winner because he couldn't stop long enough to celebrate. He always wanted more—to play one more game, to have one more drink, to love one more woman. His father was wrong that day. Pouliot wasn't destined to be a foolhardy risk-taker. He was destined never to be satisfied with life. And with Thomson's straight flush, he knows that he'll be crammed in the back of his hatchback tomorrow, praying the collision won't kill him.

He asks to lie down on the couch before leaving. He can hear Baxter's and Toomer's voices but isn't listening to the words. The hallway walls are covered with family pictures. A child's crayoned drawing of a bright sun with dark glasses, a large purple tree, and two people holding hands is taped alongside one of the frames.

“Who drew that?” Pouliot asks.

“My nephew. He's seven.” Thomson is surprised by the question. “Why?”

“I don't know. It just looks familiar.”

“Yeah,” Baxter interjects, “like every other kid's picture. Get a grip, J. P. Not even you can lose forever. Later.” Baxter leaves, and T and T take a seat by the couch.

“So, J. P., about the money you owe us…”