The Sleepless (31 page)

‘Patrice wants
me
to help him? Who the hell is he trying to kid? I shot his baby.’ 

‘Exactamundo. That’s why he reckons you owe him one.’ 

Ralph watched Genghis Khan’s hordes galloping wildly across the Universal backlot, swords flashing. 

‘Newt,’ he said, ‘there is absolutely no way. If you ask me, this whole story is nothing more than a goddamned clumsy stupid trick to get me down to Seaver Street, so that Latomba can ice me. Tell him to send me a bomb in the post, it’ll save me driving down there.’ 

‘He says if you can save his wife, he’ll stop the riots and won’t take out any complaints against you for what happened to little Toussaint.’ 

‘And what if I can’t save his wife? What if the hostage-takers blow her away? What’s he going to do then? Shake me by the hand and buy me a soul-food dinner?’ 

There was a lengthy, hollow silence. At last, Newt said, ‘I believe him, Ralph, as a matter of fact.’ 

‘You believe him? Good! But you’re not the one who has to put his mouth in the lion’s den, or whatever.’ 

‘Ralph – those guys have threatened to torture and kill Latomba’s wife unless they get their money.’ 

Ralph smacked his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘What does he expect me to do? I can’t do any more than he can do, not without a SWAT squad. Tell him to kick the door down and go in with guns blazing. He might save his wife, he might not.’ 

‘You can negotiate with them, that’s what Latomba said. You can offer them some kind of deal.’ 

‘What deal? I’m on suspension, in case you’d forgotten. I can’t even offer them a sandwich.’ 

‘Okay, Ralph ... no need to get sore. I was just passing on the message.’ 

‘Yeah ... thanks, Newt. I’m sorry. I guess I’m feeling sorry for myself, more than anything else.’ 

‘It’s my day off tomorrow,’ said Newt. ‘Why don’t you and me go to the Sunset and see how many different beers we can get through?’ 

Ralph looked across at the photograph of Hemingway propped over the fireplace. No wonder the poor bastard had blown his brains out. In a world of fake and fear and cowardice, sometimes it seemed like the only course that a real man could take. 

Nine 

They drove southward down the Pilgrims’ Highway in the blurry, sunlit morning, with 1970s rock’n’roll on the radio, ‘Staying Alive’ and ‘The Air That I Breathe’ and ‘Reasons To Be Cheerful’. 

Victor said, ‘I should take a vacation. I haven’t taken a vacation in years. Every day, another dead body. You know what I mean?’ 

‘It must be pretty depressing,’ said Michael. 

‘Oh, no way, it’s not depressing. It’s just boring. You know what I mean? You’ve seen one pancreas, you’ve seen them all.’ 

They drove into New Seabury just before eleven, and Michael turned into his own yard and blasted the horn. Patsy immediately opened the kitchen door and came running down the wooden stairs, dressed in tight jeans and a pink checkered shirt, her hair pinned back. Michael held her tight and she felt just as warm and sexy as she’d ever felt, and she smelled of Lauren, just like she’d always smelled. 

‘This is Victor Unpronounceable,’ he said at last, turning around. 

‘Kurylowicz,’ said Victor, holding out his hand. 

Patsy shook his hand and smiled at him. ‘It’s good to meet you. Michael told me all about you, on the phone.’ 

‘Not the truth, I hope.’ 

‘He said you were a friend.’ 

They climbed the steps to the kitchen, and then walked through to the living-room, with its two worn-out sofas and its jumble-sale chairs; its stunning blue-and-white view of the ocean. ‘You want coffee?’ Patsy asked Michael. Her eyes were bright because she was so pleased to see him. 

‘That’d be great,’ said Michael. 

After Patsy had gone through to the kitchen, Victor said, ‘Look at this place. It’s beautiful. God knows why you want to work in the city.’ 

‘Lack of income,’ said Michael. ‘Otherwise, wild horses couldn’t drag me away.’ 

‘How’re you feeling?’ asked Victor. 

‘Unbalanced, if you want to know the truth.’ 

‘You’re going to see that shrink of yours?’ 

‘Sure, this afternoon.’ 

‘That hypnotism ... that really helps?’ 

‘For sure. It’s like living out your worst nightmares. You live them, you walk around in them, you get to know them, you learn to deal with them ... the same way that you learned to deal with death.’ 

Victor smiled, and looked out toward the sea. ‘You know what my old man said to me, before he died? He said, “For Christ’s sake, don’t let Uncle Kazyk put lipstick on me. I don’t want to be buried looking like your Aunt Krysta.” We laughed so much we practically cried; then we cried anyway. Well, he had cancer.’ 

‘What made you move here from Newark?’ 

‘Nothing, in particular. This job was on offer, so I came.’ 

‘You’re not married?’ 

He shook his head. ‘When you’ve seen what’s inside of people, it’s difficult to have any kind of physical relationship with them. It makes you kind of distance yourself, if you know what I mean.’ 

Patsy came back with the coffee. She poured it out, and then she sat close to Michael and kissed his cheek. ‘I called you this morning,’ she said, ‘but you’d already left.’ 

‘Oh, yes?’ 

‘I was a little worried. There were two guys hanging around on the opposite side of the street. They looked as if they were watching the house. I thought of calling the police, but I looked out about ten minutes later and they were gone.’ 

‘What did they look like?’ asked Michael. 

‘I don’t know ... strange. One of them was dressed all in black and the other one was dressed in grey. They both wore sunglasses so you couldn’t really tell what their faces looked like. All I could really see was that their faces were terribly pale. You know, almost albino.’ 

Michael shrugged. ‘Ah well, we get all kinds around here. A whole limousine-load of mobsters came down once, and sat on the beach in their vicuna overcoats and their Gucci shoes and smoked cigars. Then they all drove away again.’ 

‘These two didn’t look like burglars or anything,’ said Patsy. ‘But they worried me, I’m not sure why.’ 

‘Well, call the cops if you ever see them again.’ 

‘There was something else. Late last night somebody phoned three times, a man. I told him he had the wrong number, but he kept calling back.’ 

‘Did he say what number he wanted?’ 

Patsy said, ‘No, he didn’t.’ 

‘Did he sound like anybody you know?’ 

‘Unh-hunh.’ 

‘He didn’t say anything obscene?’ 

‘No, not at all. But he was so insistent, he kept on asking for Mr Hillary.’ 

Michael stared at her. A chilly prickling feeling crept down his back. ‘Mr Hillary? Are you sure?’ 

‘That’s what he said. “I want to speak to Mr Hillary.” ‘ 

Michael frowned.
Mr Hillary.
That was the name the blind man had mentioned, when he was walking across Copley Place. It was too much of a coincidence for
two
references to have been made to ‘Mr Hillary’ accidentally, in such a short space of time, and so gratuitously, too. 

‘Anything wrong?’ asked Victor, sipping coffee. 

‘I don’t know ... I’ve heard that name before, that’s all.’ 

‘Weird,’ Victor remarked. 

Victor and Patsy went shopping in Hyannis while Michael went to visit Dr Rice. It was a sparkling, sunny afternoon, with a brisk wind blowing, and the clouds racing across the sky like frisky sheep. Dr Rice kept him waiting for over twenty minutes, and when he opened the door of his office, a middle-aged woman with a scarlet face and an orange linen suit came hurrying out, her eyes red and her mascara blotchy. 

‘Sorry to have kept you, Michael,’ said Dr Rice. He was looking unusually casual today, in a yellow short-sleeved shirt and checkered blue golfing trousers and white loafers with tassels. ‘Excuse the attire. I’m playing at Chatham this afternoon. Psychiatrists vs. dentists. We should lick them hollow.’ 

Michael sat down in the chrome-and-canvas chair. The arm had been straightened since his last therapy. Dr Rice went to the window and adjusted the blinds so that the office was plunged into brownish gloom. 

‘How have you been, then, Michael?’ he asked, perching one buttock on the edge of his desk. ‘You sounded somewhat panicky on the phone.’ 

‘I’ve been ... unsteady, to tell you the truth,’ Michael confessed. 

‘Unsteady?’ 

‘It’s this job, no question about it. I keep having action replays of Rocky Woods. And other things, too. Really strange incidents in the street: incidents I can’t understand.’ 

‘Are we talking about nightmares?’ 

‘No, no. They’re definitely daymares. Or anytime-mares. I keep experiencing these sudden feelings that I’m falling out of that airplane – that I’m just about to die.’ 

‘Well,’ said Dr Rice soberly, ‘I know you need this job, but maybe you should think of quitting. Just like I said before – your sanity is worth a whole lot more than any amount of money. No good being a millionaire if you’re too screwed-up to enjoy it.’ 

‘I don’t want to quit. I
can’t
quit. There are too many questions, too many puzzles ... if I don’t find out what happened to John O’Brien and his family, I think I’ll be more screwed-up than I ever was before.’ 

‘Do you really think that finding out what happened to John O’Brien is of any great significance? He’s dead, nothing can bring him back. It may matter to Plymouth Insurance how he died; but what does it really matter to you? I mean, psychologically?’ 

‘It matters a lot,’ said Michael. ‘I guess you’ve seen on the news that O’Brien’s daughter was washed up dead at Nahant Bay?’ 

‘Of course,’ said Dr Rice, warily. He reached over and switched on his tape-recorder. 

‘I went to Nahant Bay myself, and saw the body. But more than that, I saw Nahant Bay ... and Nahant Bay is the same bay that I saw, the last time you took me under.’ 

Dr Rice looked surprised. ‘You’re sure about that?’ 

‘Absolutely. Same beach, same lighthouse, everything.’ 

‘And had you ever been to Nahant Bay before?’ 

‘Never.’ 

‘You’ve never seen it in a guidebook, or a magazine?’ 

Michael emphatically shook his head. 

‘Well ... that’s remarkable,’ Dr Rice admitted. ‘I’ve heard of patients having flashes of insight under hypnosis ... but I’ve never heard of a patient seeing into the future.’ 

‘I want you to take me down again,’ said Michael. 

Dr Rice stood up, and walked around his desk. The muted sunlight shone from his bony, freshly-shaved cheeks, but his eyes remained circles of impenetrable darkness. 

‘Are you sure about this?’ 

‘I’m sure ... why do you ask? You never asked me before.’ 

‘The reason is, I’m worried about you. Normally, patients use their experiences under hypnotherapy to come to terms with their psychological traumas. In your case, it seems as if you’re doing the reverse ... as if you’re creating more psychological traumas while you’re under hypnosis, and bringing them back to disturb your everyday life.’ 

‘I saw Nahant Bay. I saw the lighthouse, I saw the beach. I saw these green saltbox houses. They were
there,
for Christ’s sake. They were really there. I have to know how I managed to see them, before I went there; and why.’ 

Dr Rice lowered his head. ‘You must understand that hypnotherapy can only reveal things that are already dormant inside of your brain. It can’t tell you something that you don’t already know.’ 

‘Please,’ said Michael. ‘I’m right on the edge as it is. I’m clinging by my fingernails. I’m seeing things that I shouldn’t be seeing. I’m having all kinds of peculiar experiences. In Boston, I had this feeling I was being followed; and then this old blind man started talking to me; and then my cab driver started spouting the Bible.’ 

‘Sounds like normal Boston to me,’ said Dr Rice, with a small, arch smile. 

‘I need to go under,’ Michael insisted. 

Dr Rice, at last, said, ‘All right. But the tape-recorder is running, and I want it on record that I hypnotized you at your own request, and at your own risk, and that you totally absolve me of any responsibility.’ 

Michael hesitated. He had never heard Dr Rice talking like this before. ‘You’re scared,’ he said. 

‘I’m just concerned. Hypnosis isn’t a party trick. You could be severely traumatized.’ 

‘I’m already having waking visions of falling out of airplanes. I mean, waking visions, right in the middle of the day, like the floor’s opening up, right beneath my feet. I see bodies. I see pieces of bodies. I
see
them, for Christ’s sake! What could be worse than that?’