The Sleepwalkers (19 page)
Guess I’m a little hard up,
he thinks.
Jesus and his Pops ain’t gonna like that one. Course, that’s why he isn’t behind the pulpit anymore, isn’t it? The place for him is out there, wherever “there” is. Not cooped up in some hallowed church but on the streets, on the hallowed highways.
Searching for Keisha, that’s where he belongs. But he’s beginning to think that reunion won’t happen until he reaches the white gates. Even if he can just glimpse her through the bars before he heads down to
his
place in the spiritual fires, that’d be enough.
But this, today, almost gives him hope. It’s something worth looking into, the fact that this kid’s friend got abducted. And even though the kid is rattled, he was an eyewitness. He thinks he saw the abductor. Together, maybe they could find out what’s going on and who’s behind it all, and put a stop to it.
But all that’s pie in the sky.
If there’s one thing Ron Bent knows, it’s when he’s not wanted. His “no thanks” detector has been fine-tuned through years of rejection, God knows (of course he does—God knows everything). And this kid doesn’t want his help. This kid wants to be left alone. And Ron can take a hint. So he gets up, adjusts his belt, and—
“Sir?”
The lilt of a woman’s voice is coming from behind the counter. Ron steps over and sees the haggard face of a young girl, perhaps twenty-five years old.
“Yes?” says Ron.
“Is that young man your son?”
“No,” says Ron.
“Do you know who his parents are? If they’re looking for him, we should let them know.”
“I dunno,” Ron says with a shrug. “I just picked him up on the side of the road and figured he should have that arm looked at.”
The girl nods and makes a note on her clipboard.
“So you don’t have any idea if anyone’s looking for him, who his parents are, anything?”
Ron shrugs. “No.”
She makes another jot.
“And has he been showing any signs of mental instability? Combativeness, depression, anxiety?”
“Well, yeah,” Ron says. “But he said he lost his friend, and I’m pretty sure that arm is busted, so I figure he deserves to be a little cranky.”
The girl nods to herself. “Good,” she says. “Good. And have you noticed any sleep disturbances, nightmares, insomnia?”
Ron looks at her. “In me, or in him?”
“In him,” she says.
“Well I ain’t sleepin’ with him,” says Ron. “What part of ‘picked him up on the side of the road’ don’t you get? If you’re askin’ me, I’d say he doesn’t look like he’s had a good night’s sleep in a while, but what do I know?”
“So you can’t rule out sleep disturbances?” she persists.
“Well, no,” says Ron. He sees her check a box marked ‘yes.’ She nods to herself.
Ron looks at the door. Something about this place is making him uneasy. Claustrophobic. Panic biting at its heels. Boy, just when you think you got something beat. He’s craving a drink too. That thirst is whispering in his ear. He has to get out of here.
“That it?” he asks.
“That’s it, thanks,” the girl says to the clipboard.
Ron heads to the door, grabs the handle, and stops. He walks back to the counter.
“You know what?” he says. “I’m going to leave my cell number with you, just in case he needs it.” he says.
She hands him a scrap of paper. He writes on it, then pushes it back to her.
“You’ll make sure he gets this?” he asks.
She smiles, for the first time. “Of course,” she says.
As Ron walks out to his car he has a strange feeling, like just after an argument when you remember everything you
should’ve
said. Only there’s no argument, no “should’ve said,” and no reason to have a strange feeling.
Please, Lord, don’t let me get
any stranger in my old age.
Ron digs out his keys and drives away, without any idea of the terrible danger Caleb is in.
TRANSCRIPT—Patient #62, SESSION #85
(In this session, the doctor introduces “The Dream Viewer Machine.”)
DIRECTOR: Well, Patient Sixty-two, you’ve been making excellent
progress, don’t you agree?
(The patient nods.)
DIRECTOR: Have you been enjoying the radio we put in your room
for you?
(The patient nods.)
DIRECTOR: Good. Let’s get started then. We’re beginning a new mode
of therapy today. Put on the helmet.
PATIENT #62: I don’t want to.
DIRECTOR: And lie on the table.
PATIENT #62: It’s cold . . . Something’s poking me inside the helmet.
DIRECTOR: Those are cathodes. With this machine I will be able to
watch your dreams, just like a film or television show. That’s pretty
exciting, isn’t it?
PATIENT #62: It looks like a metal dish attached to an old TV by some
wires.
DIRECTOR: You don’t think it will work?
(The patient doesn’t answer.)
DIRECTOR: Well?
PATIENT #62: I’m afraid to say.
DIRECTOR: Then lie down on the table and we’ll find out. Now relax.
(The director plays the relaxation tape and begins talking the patient down into hypnosis.)
PATIENT #62: Director, I have to ask you a question.
DIRECTOR: You’re supposed to be embracing the hypnosis.
PATIENT #62: Please?
DIRECTOR: Yes, Patient Sixty-two, quickly.
PATIENT #62: Are you a real doctor?
DIRECTOR: Why yes, of course. I studied at the University of Heidelberg
in Germany, among other places. Why do you ask—because
my methods seem unconventional?
PATIENT #62: No.
DIRECTOR: Why then?
PATIENT #62: Because somebody told me you’re not really a doctor at all.
DIRECTOR: And who was that, one of the other patients?
PATIENT #62: No.
DIRECTOR: Who then?
PATIENT #62: I’m afraid to say.
DIRECTOR: Why would you be afraid to tell me something? Have I
ever hurt you?
PATIENT #62: Not yet, but . . .
DIRECTOR: But what?
PATIENT #62: But you will.
DIRECTOR: I thought we had dispelled all those silly fears. What did
we decide together? About the hole in your head? About the dreams?
PATIENT #62: There is no hole in my head and there are no dreams.
Having no dreams is just part of the healing process. But I did have
a dream the other night.
DIRECTOR: And what did you dream?
PATIENT #62: That I was sleepwalking.
DIRECTOR: And what else?
PATIENT #62: Nothing else. That’s all I remember.
DIRECTOR: You’re an interesting case, Patient Sixty-two. Let’s try the
Dream Viewer, shall we? Please close your eyes.
(The director urges the patient into a deep, hypnosis-induced sleep. He then observes the screen and speaks into his tape recorder.)
DIRECTOR: It’s difficult to make out what I’m seeing here. Okay, this is
better. It’s a girl, a younger version of the patient, I imagine. She’s running
through a labyrinth made of shrubbery. She’s come upon a lake.
She knows there’s something in the water, alligators is the feeling, and
now she’s sliding, like a waterslide, however she’s passed the surface
of the water and is still going down. And the patient has landed in
a pile of clothes. Clearly, we’re picking up the smell of laundry detergent,
and the clothes are warm, fresh out of the dryer, I gather. And
she’s poking her head out of the pile. She must be very small. The sun
is very bright through the window. There’s the silhouette of a woman
laughing, and there’s a girl in the basket next to her, also very small,
I’m sure representing the twin sister. The sister whispers in her ear.
I’m having trouble making out the whisper, but it sounds like bees
buzzing, not words—like a big hive of angry hornets, kind of frightening,
maybe causing some of the distress we’re seeing. Okay, now
it’s changed. She’s in a hallway; it’s dark. There’s a door with a light
shining out of it. And she opens the door slowly, and sees—what am
I seeing here? It’s washed out from going from the dark hall then into
the bright light. Okay, here we go. We have a girl lying on a ceramic
table, very pale, dead maybe, something on her head. She’s turning
now, looking, sees a man sitting in front of a TV. It’s me, or somebody
very closely resembling me. How interesting. Okay, now she walks
around the chair, looking over my shoulder. She looks at the TV—
(Patient #62 then begins screaming. After some effort, the director is finally able to wake her.)
DIRECTOR: Patient Sixty-two. Patient Sixty-two! Calm down now.
Stop crying, or you’ll be confined to your room for a week. There,
that’s better. Now tell me, what was it that made you so frightened?
PATIENT #62: I’m afraid to say.
DIRECTOR: You must say. If you ever want to make progress and live
a normal life, you must cooperate with your therapy. What upset
you?
PATIENT #62: I was dreaming. And I saw you and me, in this room,
just like we are now. And you were looking at the TV, to see what I
was dreaming. And . . .
DIRECTOR: And what?
PATIENT #62: And I saw the TV screen and . . .
DIRECTOR: And?
PATIENT #62: And . . . there was nothing there. It was blank.
(The Director smiles.)
DIRECTOR: And if the TV is blank, how was I able to see your dreams,
do you think? That would be impossible.
(The patient begins crying.)
DIRECTOR: What? Why are you crying?
PATIENT #62: Look. The TV. It’s not even plugged in.
DIRECTOR: Of course the machine works. If it didn’t work, how would
I know that you dreamt of playing in a basket of clothes with your
twin sister when you were just a child?
(The patient becomes distraught, crying, shaking her head.)
DIRECTOR: How would I know that, Patient Sixty-two?
PATIENT #62: She says . . . she says the drowned ones tell you.
DIRECTOR: Who says that? I promise if you tell me, I won’t get angry.
Who’s talking to you?
PATIENT #62: My sister.
DIRECTOR: And where is your sister? I’d very much like to meet her.
PATIENT #62: You can’t.
DIRECTOR: Why.
PATIENT #62: Because she’s dead. Stop, stop smiling at me! I want to
go home now. Billy was supposed to take me home. I can’t take this.
I can’t take this. The devil is coming, and you know it, and you know
it, and you know it! I hear you, you sing his song at night, you—
DIRECTOR: I think we’ve accomplished enough for this session.
Patient Sixty-two appears to have gotten a pen somewhere, and
attacks the director with it, stabbing it into his forearm. The director
strikes her, knocking her unconscious, then directs the orderlies to
undress the patient and remove her into the basement. End of session.
