Evil Dreams (20 page)

Tory fumbled in her purse for a ball point pen and note pad she used for grocery lists whenever she managed to keep enough money from Howie for food. When she found them, she cooed, “Go ahead, honey.”

The next day, Tory typed the letter after calling the First Federal Security Bank to learn the name of the president. When she returned home that evening, she found Howie in an expansive mood. They made love in his usual hurried, uncaring way, leaving her unsatisfied. Later, he insisted they go to sleep early. He wanted to be ready for his meeting with Sterling Tilden.

Shortly after she left the next morning, Howie smiled while studying the letter once more. Refolding the single page neatly in thirds, he inserted it into the envelope, laying it with the sealed one addressed to Mrs. Tilden. He would threaten the banker with exposing his homosexuality to his wife first, then to the president of his firm. If that failed, he would contact Langley’s. Somehow, he would get money from Sterling Tilden or bring the man to ruination.

At eleven o’clock, he approached the girl’s desk to which he had been directed at the information counter. “How do you do, young lady,” he said. “My name is Peter Dick Ward. I’d like to see Mr. Sterling Tilden for a moment if I could.” He had selected Peter Dick to tantalize his victim if necessary and Jon’s last name had just popped into his mind when he entered the bank lobby. He breathed a sigh of relief when he discovered Sterling had a private office and not just a desk in the large room the way some of the other bank officials did.

“Yes, Mr. Ward,” the dark-haired secretary said. Margo Kubicinsky’s eyes questioningly grew large when he turned his head for a moment. His thinning, long hair and nondescript clothes made her wonder why a man of his type would want to see a high ranking official such as Sterling Tilden. She picked up the telephone, dialing three numbers. “Mr. Tilden, there’s a man here, a Mr. Peter Ward, to see you.” She paused for several seconds. “What’s your business with Mr. Tilden?” she asked, placing her hand over the mouthpiece.

“Tell him it’s got to do with Langley’s Boys’ School,” he said, grinning wickedly. That should make the faggot want to see him.

Margo relayed the information before placing the phone in its cradle. “He’s expected at a meeting in thirty minutes and will see you shortly. Please be seated,” she said pleasantly, indicating a row of chairs opposite her desk.

Selecting one, Howie sat down heavily. He didn’t like banks or the things they represented. He liked money but had discovered that it could be had without resorting to normal methods which usually involved work or banks. Besides, these white-collared assholes didn’t want anything to do with most of the poor slobs who had given up a couple of years from their lives to fight a war nobody wanted. Nobody except the fat cats on Wall Street, the fucking bankers, and the egotistical politicians who wanted to be certain their names would go into the history books. Fuck ‘em! Fuck ‘em all. Howard Liemen would make money his own way. Hadn’t he always? He always tried, but had not always met with success.

When he couldn’t find work after he got out of the army, he had hired on to fly a plane load of grass from Mexico into the United States, and that had netted him five years in a Federal pen.

The only good thing about his stay there had been his time spent in the prison library. The thing he hated most had been the sexual assaults perpetrated by the older inmates. Men who had not been with a woman for ten or twenty years, and even longer in some instances, were constantly on the lookout for recent arrivals who would give them some new perverted thrill.

He had been no different than other new prisoners at first and had been raped no less than twenty-eight times during his first year. After his brutal initiation, he didn’t care what happened during his confinement. He hated every man serving time with him, including the guards who were just as sadistic as the prisoners. He hated the Drug Enforcement Agency for arresting him and being responsible for his jail sentence. He hated the people who had turned their backs on him when he needed a job. It seemed they always lost interest when they found out he had finished his stay in the service in a stockade instead of fighting a senseless, no-win war. Most of all, he currently hated Sterling Tilden because he had money and prestige. Everything he wanted. And the sonofabitch was queer—a faggot. No goddamn better than the bastards in prison.

“He’ll see you now, Mr. Ward,” Margo said pleasantly, breaking into his vicious thoughts. She pointed toward a door with open Venetian blinds.

Howie slowly rose, forcing the feelings of hatred into the farthest recesses of his mind. He strode toward the door behind which he calculated ten thousand dollars awaited him. Smiling broadly, he threw open the door and said, “Mr. Tilden, I believe I might be the salvation of Langley’s Boys’ School.”

Sterling Tilden stood, taking the proffered hand in a firm grasp. “How—how can that be, Mr. Ward?” he asked, returning to his seat behind the large mahogany desk, his face puzzled by his visitor’s statement.

“I believe we’ll want total privacy, Mr. Tilden,” he said, turning to close the door. When he faced the desk standing opposite his intended victim, he smiled. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Sterling, you sly devil. I want ten thousand dollars. Preferably in small bills.”

“What—what did you say?” he flustered. The well dressed man paled while thoughts of a bank robbery pushed beads of sweat onto his balding head.

“I don’t believe I spoke Mandarin Chinese, Sterling. I didn’t stutter either. You see, certain information has come my way and I’ve taken the liberty of writing a couple of letters. One to your wife, and one to the president of this bank. Now if—oh, hell—rather than sit here and bore you with all this information about you, why don’t I just give you a copy and let you read it? Here.” Sobering, Howie handed a carbon copy of the letter to him and sat back, a smirk furrowing his fleshy jowls.

Taking the paper in his trembling hand, Sterling turned it and began reading.

Dear Mrs. Tilden,

Were you aware of the fact that your husband, Sterling, will commit suicide if the knowledge he likes to suck other guy’s cocks is spread around to certain individuals such as yourself and the president of the bank where he works? Can you imagine the disgrace you and he will suffer if he’s asked to resign from such a high faluting Board of Directors as the esteemed body that governs Langley’s School for Boys? And for what? Just because old Sterling likes cocks and assholes instead of pussies—

There was more, but he was unable to read further. His face blanched, reflecting the weary anguish which the information in the letter brought rushing to the surface of his mind. Crumbling the carbon copy up, he threw it on his desk. “Where—? Who—? How—?” He gasped the one word questions, choking before he could form a coherent sentence.

“Don’t worry about it, Sterling. Hey, look, I ain’t gonna spread the word. Not yet, at least. You show your good faith in me by coming up with ten grand and I’ll show you mine by not mailing the letter to your wife. ‘Course, if you elect to give me any shit, I’ll send it to her. If that doesn’t do it, I’ll mail the other copy to your boss here at the bank. And don’t forget the school.”

Sterling, his hands shaking, mopped his sweating brow with a linen handkerchief. Staring at Howie, he suddenly stiffened. “Get out of here, you sonofabitch. Get out or I’ll call the police right now,” he ordered strongly.

“You don’t have to call the fuzz, cocksucker,” Howie growled. “Just come up with the bread.”

“I won’t. If you come near me again, I’ll call the police. Now, get out of here,” he shrieked loudly.

Howie turned, half expecting the door to burst open any second, framing a curious Margo Kubicinsky, who would want to know if she could help in any way. He quickly recalled the distance between her desk and the office in which he stood. Besides, Sterling hadn’t really yelled that loud. Why take chances this first time out? Of course the faggot would be a little hesitant at first. That was to be expected. Give him a little time to get used to the idea of being blackmailed. Then he would come around to the easy way out, paying to keep the information confidential.

Howie started for the door. “Don’t be upset, Sterling, old boy. I’ll be back and you’d better have the money ready. In fact, just to be certain, I think I’ll mail your wife’s letter on the way home,” he said before leaving.

The banker followed him, locking the door with shaking hands. Pulling the blinds to shut the bustling bank lobby from sight, he crossed the room and sat down. Propping both elbows on the desk, he cradled his head in his hands. A tear ran down his cheek when he reached for a paper and pen. “It’s over,” were the only words he wrote and unlocked the bottom drawer.

Howie swung past the guard, grinning widely at him and strutted through the entrance. He didn’t hear the muffled explosion from the back of the bank nor did he see some of the employees rush toward Sterling Tilden’s office. Satisfied with the way his first attempt at blackmail had gone, and positive neither the banker nor his wife would risk contacting the authorities, he pulled out the stamped envelope bearing Tilden’s residence address. Walking up to a mail box, he dropped the letter in. He turned abruptly coming face to face with a tall policeman.

“Good morning, officer,” he said smiling, and turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd of noon shoppers.

CHAPTER 11

Jon plodded along the walk away from the Shedd Aquarium, lost in thought. His normally squared shoulders hunched forward, both hands thrust in the pockets of his slacks, he hugged a small cassette recorder against his body with one arm. What would Doctor Dayton say about his latest episode? Withdrawing his right hand, he patted his breast pocket. The cassette tape seemed to move of its own accord when he checked to make certain he hadn’t lost or forgotten it. How many times had he done that since leaving the apartment early that morning? What could be wrong with him? Could he be going crazy, insane? Even his usually excellent memory hinted at letting him down now when it should work. There were certain gaps that needed filling. What did really happen last Friday afternoon?

He found himself wondering if the year off from work had been such a good idea. His writing discipline could not be at fault for his feelings of self recrimination. Most of the first draft he had produced thus far, impressed both Trina and him.

Trina! His tactless answers to her questions over the weekend, his moodiness, this new twist that had occurred Friday—how would she ultimately react to him and his problems? Although he knew he had to trust someone, he found himself harboring doubts about placing his confidence in her. Doubts? About Trina? Ridiculous! How could he have feelings of dubiety where she was concerned? He loved her. Hadn’t she unselfishly demonstrated her faith and love by insisting he take the time to write without worry about working? But he loved her, truly loved her, long before he had taken his leave. Perhaps he didn’t want to overburden her with this thing that had happened Friday afternoon. Hadn’t he kept the continuation of the dream from her? And what had been his motivation at that time?

Who then? Who could he totally and completely trust? Sam Dayton? Jon found himself liking and admiring the man more each time they met. But did that mean he was becoming emotionally dependent on the psychiatrist? If that were the situation, he had no idea what the future might hold for him.

He speculated on what Sam would have to say about the recording in his pocket. Patting his jacket again, he looked at his broad hand. He held up the other one holding the recorder and studied them. Would those strong hands have hurt Trina in Galena? A shudder rippled through his body and he pulled the collar of his turtleneck closer to his jaw.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. Sometimes he wished he were a turtle or an ostrich. If he were, he could simply hide his head and forget his nightmare. He didn’t like what it and its treatment were doing to his world. Would he be all right? How many times had he asked that question during the last five weeks? Yet, he knew he had to face up to the crisis his dream represented. Face up to it. Fight it. Beat it into oblivion. Get rid of it once and for all. Then he and Trina could continue their lives in a more normal fashion. He knew he could do it. In this instance, his stubbornness would serve him in good stead.

Turning to his right, he gazed at the black skyline over Lake Michigan, ignoring Buckingham Fountain spread before him. Perhaps today, he and Sam would solve the puzzle. The cassette might hold the necessary clue to understanding everything. Had he actually spoken German while dozing Friday afternoon? The voice didn’t sound like his. It had only been by accident that it had been recorded. Maybe the psychiatrist could explain it. The doctor had asked if he spoke German when he was brought out of the trance last Tuesday. Had he said something in German while under hypnosis to prompt such a question? Jon had tried dozens of times over the weekend to comprehend his sudden ability to speak a foreign language, ignoring his wife while he lost himself in thoughts of this latest twist.

After she had departed for school that morning, he decided he could not remain alone in the apartment, and left shortly thereafter for downtown Chicago. He had spent the day wandering about the Loop and after having eaten lunch, walked to the aquarium. Glancing at his watch, he saw he had forty minutes to walk to Dayton’s office. He picked up his pace from the slow shuffling to his accustomed energetic stride. Shaking off his onerous mood as best he could, he hurried northward, past the Art Institute. He would just make it on time.

Sam sat at his desk holding the reel of tape which held the record of Jon’s second hypnotic-state. Divergent thoughts of where the sessions might eventually lead him coursed through his mind. What type of solution would be needed? Would he find an answer? Reluctantly admitting the dream still puzzled him, he found little solace reflecting on Marie’s attitude. What caused her to be so mysterious about making a call to Vienna? He had tried unsuccessfully to push the subject, hoping she would explain her reason before leaving last Thursday. Why reach out so far for help in what he hoped would be at the climax, an ordinary neurosis helped by ordinary treatment? But Marie had deftly avoided the issue each time he brought it up.