The Sleepless (42 page)

‘For sure, yes. Some days it works better than others, but it works.’ 

‘He doesn’t tell you to do anything specific – like start tapdancing in the middle of the street, or kiss every woman you see wearing a blue dress, or anything like that?’ 

Michael smiled. ‘He’d better not try.’ 

‘He could actually do that, though?’ 

‘Oh, sure. Most people think that they could never be hypnotized, and that they would never respond to post-hypnotic suggestion. But it’s incredible what a good hypnotist can make people do. And all that stuff about people not doing anything that’s against their inner nature, or anything dangerous or life-threatening ... that’s all nonsense. A skilled modern hypnotist could induce you to jump off the John Hancock Tower, or to step in front of a bus, or whatever he wanted.’ 

‘That’s what I’ve been thinking.’ 

Michael turned to him. ‘What do you mean?’ 

‘I’ve been thinking about Frank Coward, the guy who was piloting the helicopter when the O’Brien family was killed.’ 

‘And?’ 

‘Whatever progress we make with this investigation, we keep coming back to the helicopter crash. Okay – we accept that the O’Brien party were probably murdered, and we accept that Sissy O’Brien was abducted. But how was it done? How did the perpetrator know exactly where the helicopter was going to come down, unless Frank Coward brought it down there deliberately?’ 

Michael said, ‘You think that Frank Coward could have crashed the helicopter under post-hypnotic suggestion?’ 

‘It’s a thought, that’s all. He wasn’t terminally ill. Thomas Boyle told me that the police have been through all of his bank accounts and all of his savings accounts and all of his recent expenditure, and there’s no evidence at all that he was bribed. He didn’t buy himself a new car or book a holiday to Acapulco or even treat his wife to a side-by-side icebox. Granted – he could have been prepared to commit suicide to kill the O’Brien party. Look at some of those Middle East terrorists who drive trucks of explosives into US Army installations. Look at the woman who killed Rajiv Gandhi. But – I don’t know, a suicide mission doesn’t really figure, does it? Not by an American pilot, to kill a Supreme Court justice. Doesn’t ring true.’ 

Michael thought about it, and then he said, ‘Okay, that’s an interesting theory. Maybe I will keep that appointment with Dr Rice tomorrow morning. I can ask him about it.’ 

Victor lay back on the couch. He crossed himself. 

Michael was just about to switch off the light. ‘Do you always do that?’ 

‘It’s just a habit. My grandmother taught me to do it, when I was a kid. Keeps away the lily-white boys, that’s what she said.’ 

‘The lily-white boys? Who were the lily-white boys, when they were at home?’ 

‘I don’t really know. Some old Jewish folk-legend from Poland. They came at night and stole your soul, something like that. She would never really tell me. All the time she talked about them, she used to cross herself over and over.’ 

Michael switched off the light. ‘Sleep well, then,’ he said. ‘And – uh, maybe I should cross myself too.’ 

Marcia called him at six in the morning and told him in a trembling voice that Joe still hadn’t come home. She’d phoned all of his friends, she’d phoned the police and the Highway Patrol, she’d phoned the hospitals. There was no trace of him anywhere. 

‘Maybe he got delayed for some reason, and decided to stop off at a hotel,’ Michael suggested, even though he didn’t believe it for a moment. 

‘He would have
called,
Michael. He always calls.’ 

‘Well, I’ll be back in Boston round lunchtime. If he’s not back in the office by then, I’ll call round and see you.’ 

‘Oh dear God, I hope he’s all right,’ said Marcia. ‘He’s been under such a strain with this O’Brien case.’ 

‘Strain?’ asked Michael. He was quite surprised. ‘What kind of a strain?’ 

‘It seemed to worry him so much. It seemed to
frighten
him. A couple of weeks ago, he said that there were things going on that nobody knew about. A sort of secret society, that’s what he called it. He said that he’d noticed it years ago, and that he hadn’t really believed it to begin with, but now he had proof.’ 

Michael thought of the Kennedy photographs. What on earth had Joe discovered? Maybe it was some kind of connection between the Kennedy assassination and the O’Brien killings? A mob connection, maybe, like Sam Giancana or Bugsy Siegel? Or a secret society of hired political hit-men? Whatever it was, ‘He didn’t say anything to me,’ he told Marcia. 

‘I know,’ said Marcia. She paused, and he could hear the tears in her voice. ‘I’m sorry, Michael, maybe he should. But he said he wasn’t going to tell anybody until he was completely sure. That’s why he didn’t want you on the case. He said you were bound to find out what was going on, and that you might blow the whistle before he had enough proof.’ 

Michael frowned. ‘What do you mean, he didn’t want me on the case? He came down here and asked me specially. He literally begged me.’ 

‘He had to. Edgar Bedford wanted you, and Joe didn’t have any choice.’ 

Michael was astounded. ‘Marcia, I simply can’t believe this. Joe actually didn’t want me to take over this investigation?’ 

‘He said it was far too dangerous. He said there was far too much to lose. He tried not to show it, but he was absolutely terrified. He used to lie awake at night, shaking. That’s why I’m worried now.’ 

‘I’ll talk to you later,’ Michael assured her, and put down the phone. He was still sitting at the kitchen table staring at it when Patsy came in, wearing nothing but a checkered shirt. 

‘What’s the matter?’ she asked him. ‘Michael? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ 

After breakfast, Michael and Victor drove into Hyannis to keep Michael’s therapy appointment with Dr Rice. They had tried calling Joe yet again, but he hadn’t reached the office and his mobile phone was still dead. It was a hot, bright morning with scarcely any wind, and the streets of Hyannis looked to Michael as if he were seeing them in a highly-polished mirror. 

‘Maybe he’s gone into hiding,’ said Victor, his head lolling back against the seat, his arm resting on the open car window. 

Michael parked in front of Dr Rice’s office. ‘I hope so. I’m really worried.’ 

They walked into the reception area. Inside, it was gloomy and chilly after the heat of the street outside. A large potted cheese-plant dipped and shivered in the flow from the air-conditioner. The receptionist’s desk was empty, and the lights on her telephone switchboard were blinking with incoming calls. Her swivel chair was tilted away from the desk at a sharp angle, as if she had got up in a hurry, and her pocketbook was lying on its side on the carpet, with a comb and a lipstick and a set of keys half-spilled out of it. 

Michael looked around. ‘Strange,’ he said. 

‘Maybe she took five to go to the bathroom,’ said Victor. 

‘Unh-hunh. When girls go to the bathroom, they take their combs and their lipsticks with them.’ 

‘I’m impressed,’ said Victor, looking at him sharply. ‘You should have been an insurance investigator.’ 

Michael approached the mahogany-veneered door which led to Dr Rice’s office. It was slightly ajar – only an inch or two, but all the same he knocked on it and called out, ‘Dr Rice? Dr Rice? It’s Michael Rearden. I came for my appointment.’ 

He pushed the door open and it stuck. He pushed again, but there was something lying on the floor, something soft and heavy which prevented him from pushing it any further – like a mattress, or a –  

He pushed again, and saw a stockinged foot. 

A stockinged foot that lolled as he pushed against it, lifelessly. 

‘Jesus,’ he said. 

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Victor. 

‘There’s a body resting up against the door. A woman’s body. I can see her foot.’ 

Victor peered around the door, and then stood back. ‘If the perpetrator left her up against the door, then he’s probably still in there. Either that, or he’s escaped out of the back.’ 

Michael felt perspiration crawling down his back, inside of his shirt. ‘Maybe we should call the police.’ 

‘Aw, come on,’ Victor retorted. ‘We practically
are
the police. Leastways, I am.’ 

Michael hesitated, and then he went back up to the door and called out, ‘Dr Rice? Are you there? It’s Michael Rearden!’ 

They waited almost half a minute, but there was still no reply. At last, Victor said, ‘We don’t have any choice, do we? Let’s kick the bastard down.’ 

They stood side by side in the reception area, holding on to each others’ shoulders to balance themselves. For the first time since he had worked with his father, caulking decks and varnishing transoms, Michael felt a strong sense of companionship: this was something that they were doing together, without discussion. Victor was skinny and Victor was wily. He wasn’t the kind of guy that Michael normally would have numbered as a friend. But there was something alarmingly direct about him. You knew he wouldn’t try to bullshit you, and you knew that if you ever had to call on him, he’d help you, without even thinking about it. 

Or not, depending on his mood. 

‘You ready?’ said Victor. ‘One, two, three, ready or not –
Kick
!’ 

Together, they kicked at the door. Their combined strength was very much greater than they had anticipated. The door exploded off its hinges and cracked completely in half, falling into the corridor beyond in a broken, tented shape, covering the body of the woman who lay just behind it. 

Michael stepped awkwardly over the door, and Victor followed him. Together, they lifted the door up and pushed it back into the reception area, where it tilted against the receptionist’s desk, like a drunk who teeters but refuses to fall down. 

On the floor lay the body of Dr Rice’s receptionist. Michael recognized her long brunette hair immediately. Her peach silk blouse had been dragged up at the back, and her pantyhose had been dragged downward, exposing the small of her back, her bottom and her upper thighs. Her skin was white as pork fat. There were two puncture wounds in the small of her back, not much blood, but very deep, as if she had been attacked with an office hole-puncher. 

‘It’s them again,’ said Michael, his voice quiet with shock. 

Victor peered closely at the puncture wounds. ‘Exactly the same.’ 

Michael was just about to say, ‘I’m going to call Thomas Boyle,’ when the offices were filled with a terrible, agonized scream. It was a
male
scream, that’s what made it worse – the scream of a man who has been trying not to admit that he is suffering unendurable pain but at last has to let it out. 

Without a word, they hurried to the door and Michael kicked it wide open. It slammed back against the wall, juddered, and there was Dr Rice, sitting in his Oggetti chair, his face stiffly crumpled up like an old and filthy handkerchief, his fingernails digging so deep into the palms of his hands that dark red blood was welling up between his knuckles, his whole body bent and crunched-up. 

He looked like a medieval cripple, a leper who would drag himself from one market to another, and who would sit on the steps of the Holy Church, crying for mercy, begging for alms. Beside him stood two tall, wary, white-faced young men, their eyes concealed by intensely dark glasses. They wore black, these young men, as if they were priests or morticians or jazz musicians or agents of some Satanic sect. In a frightening way, they were cool. Jason would have said they were cool. But the one on the right was holding up a long-handled pair of industrial bolt-cutters, the really big mothers that could cut through steel bars the diameter of a man’s ankles; or
even
a man’s ankles. 

And they had. 

Dr Rice’s bloodied feet lay on the floor, ten inches below his ankles. They still wore chestnut-coloured wingtip Oxfords, and they still wore green-and-yellow Argyle socks. One foot lay on its side; the other foot still stood upright. Ten inches above them, his leg-bones protruded from the cringing scarlet flesh of his severed ankles, and blood pumped from his tibial arteries in terrible, rhythmic spurts. 

Michael heard himself shout, ‘ – doing, what are you
doing
!’
before he launched himself at the man with the bolt-cutters and seized his bolt-cutters and swung him around so that his back collided with Dr Rice’s file-cabinet. The white-faced young man was ridiculously light, and Michael was amazed that he had managed to throw him with such force. The file-cabinet rocked on its base, although it didn’t fall over. The young man, however, must have cracked his back, because he lay with his face pressed against the heather-coloured carpet, trembling like a poleaxed calf. 

With scarcely a second’s hesitation, Michael swung the bolt-cutters around and caught the second young man a sharp glancing blow on the side of the neck, just beneath his ear. He stumbled, overbalanced, and dropped to one knee, holding onto the stereo rack for support. He was just about to get up again when Victor stepped forward with all the intensity of a trained boxer and punched him on the bridge of the nose, and then his right cheekbone, and then his right temple, and then his right temple again. The young man made another attempt to climb to his feet, but then he teetered over sideways, and collapsed onto the floor beside his companion.