John took a deep breath and let it out, trying to dismiss the sudden ache in his chest.
A few minutes later, the phone on Dr. Barnes’s secretary’s desk bleeped and she told John that Dr. Barnes was ready to see him. John stood and walked into her office, then shut the door gently behind him.
The office suited the woman. Like her, it was edgy and modern, emitting an air of confidence and self-knowledge, but not of cockiness. The walls were an institutional cream color, a fact Barnes had probably had little ability to alter, but the décor was warm. Facing the desk were two plush leather chairs—the kind of chair in which one would want to be sitting, John thought, when receiving difficult news. On the walls, a smattering of framed photographs, mostly of Barnes with a man and two college-aged kids John assumed were her children. A good looking family, all in all. Happy. Barnes’s various diplomas were mounted on the wall, also, and John saw the names Johns Hopkins and UCLA.
Barnes was sitting behind her sleek black desk, a pile of folders half a foot high in front of her. She took one look at John and said, “What’s wrong?”
“What?” John said, unprepared for the question.
“Your face.” She gestured for John to sit down in one of the chairs across from her. “You look like someone crapped in your shoe.”
“Wow, crapped in my shoe,” John said. “There’s one I haven’t heard before. Thanks.”
She smiled tightly. “So are you going to tell me?”
He regarded her thoughtfully for a moment. “It’s kind of personal.”
“You’d led me to believe you didn’t have much of a personal life.”
“I don’t,” John said. “It’s from my misspent youth, when I did have a personal life. I was more fun then.”
Barnes clapped her hands. “Well, enough of the chitchat. Let’s get down to business.”
John spread his hands. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Dreams,” she said.
“What about them?”
“How long have you been having these dreams? Not the run-of-the-mill ones, the ones you described as ‘night terrors,’ but the real doozies.”
John thought about the question. He’d always had bad dreams, but these ones…
“A month and a half,” he said. “Maybe two. There have been times in my life before when they’ve gotten worse, but then something changes and they ease up.”
“What changes? What makes them go away?”
“Easy,” John said. “They go away when I move.”
“Hence your colorful employment record.”
“Hence that, yes.”
Dr. Barnes sat back in her chair, fingers steepled. “Can you remember them?”
John nodded. “Almost always.”
“Same dream, or different ones?”
“Different, but similar in ways. Why?”
Barnes shrugged and ran a hand through her short gray hair. They were sitting in her office, and she was obviously comfortable here, surrounded by her things. “This really isn’t my area of expertise, but I know that recurring dreams can be a symptom of certain medical conditions.”
“But not different dreams?”
“Like I said, I don’t really know that much. If anything you say raises flags, I’m going to run it by a shrink I know, an expert. What happens in the dreams? A typical one.”
John thought for a moment. “Killing. Very violent killing. Murder.”
“Do the dreams always involve a murder?”
“No,” John said, “sometimes—not often, but sometimes—the dreams are almost peaceful, but…lonely and sad. And even where there is no killing, there’s always the feeling of underlying aggression, the feeling of a need to be out doing those things, to be out killing.”
Barnes paused for a moment, then said, “Is it you committing these murders?”
He shook his head emphatically. “No, that’s the strange thing. I know it’s not me. But it feels like it is. And not like a dream at all, but like it’s really happening.”
“Do you ever recognize the victims?”
This question shocked John; he hadn’t ever thought about it. Could he even remember their faces? So many…
“No,” he said, “I’m pretty sure not. No.”
“And this strange sleep pattern, your grogginess at night, it developed at around the same time as the dreams began?” The medical staff at the hospital had been mystified at finding John all but unresponsive during the nighttime hours. For John, this was nothing new; he’d been living according to this strange cycle for weeks, but he’d always figured it was something his body and mind were going through and that eventually it would remedy itself.
“Yes. One night a couple of months ago I stayed late at school, trying to get some grading done. I got something to eat at Burger King, and after I ate, I decided to take a walk down to the river behind the athletic fields. It wasn’t quite dark yet, but the sun was going down, and the next thing I knew, I woke up from a horrible dream where I had ripped someone’s throat open. When I tried to stand up to go to the bathroom, I realized that I wasn’t in my bed at all, but lying on the grass, my head about a foot from the edge of the river. A few more inches and it would have been syonara.”
“And the same thing happened the next day?”
John nodded. “I was freaked out, so I stayed at home, watched some TV. I remember seeing the local news, and then it was suddenly six in the morning. Same thing has been happening ever since. It’s not that I collapse at first dark or anything—I’m not Cinderella at the ball—but even when I can stay awake, I feel…I feel like half a person, like something inside of me is…missing.”
“That must be very hard to live with.”
John thought, not really, surprising himself. “It stops me from going to some of the late games at school,” he said, “but other than that…”
A long pause, then, from Barnes, “Would you say it’s fair to presume a link between your fatigue and these dreams, John?”
“That would seem to make sense.”
She nodded. “And other than the dreams, can you think of anything…unusual that you’ve been feeling lately? Strange pains? Physical issues like nausea, dizziness?”
John started to respond, but then stopped himself, realizing he wasn’t sure what he’d been about to say.
Barnes arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”
He chuckled softly. “Strangest damn thing. I hadn’t really thought about it until now, but every once in a while I have these little…daydreams, I guess you’d call them. They’re like flashes—nothing developed, just images, sensations.”
“Of?”
“It varies. Streets, bars, rooms in houses. Whatever. For just a moment or two, it’ll feel like I’m in two places at once.”
“And you didn’t think to mention this.”
John shrugged. “My mother always told me I had an overactive imagination. To hear her tell it, I’ve been spinning crazy stories since I was a little kid.”
Barnes paused to consider, then said, “Then do you mind if we talk again in a couple days? I want to do a little research, see what I can find out. Maybe I’ll uncover something that’ll help. If not, at least you’ll have someone you can talk to about all of this.”
“That would be good,” John said. “I could use all the help I can get.”
* * *
During his drive home, John thought about what had happened with Kyra Metheny. It was something, he’d discovered, that he was exceedingly loathe to do, and to date he hadn’t allowed himself to get deeper into the memories than recalling individual smells, images, sounds. He remembered the look on the kids’ faces, the glob of stuff on Clarence Drake’s tie that had almost certainly been part of Kyra’s brain, the sounds of squirrels scrabbling around in the trees above. But thinking about it all now, John found he truly had no recollection of the “event” itself, just of kneeling down beside the girl, taking her hand, and then, nothing. Until he’d woken up in the hospital
. For better or worse, the rest just seemed to be missing.
John shook his head. This was impossible to think about rationally, especially with everything that had been in the papers.
Though John hadn’t been conscious during the time most of the articles were printed, by now he’d seen them all. One of the many envelopes that continued to arrive in his box had been stuffed with them, maybe fifty, from papers all over the country. It had even been in the New York Times, though they had been wise enough to drop the story after the first couple of days. There were wars going on, after all; how silly did it look to a supposedly serious-minded audience to keep running stories about some purported healer in Charlotte, North Carolina? The National Inquirer was another story, however. They continued to run stories whenever some new nugget of information reared its head.
Some of the headlines in the past couple of weeks: HEALER RELEASED FROM HOSPITAL; METHENY RETURNS TO SCHOOL, EARNS ‘A’ ON MATH TEST; JOHN BARRON: LEGIT OR PHONY? And his personal favorite: IS JOHN BARRON AN EXTRA TERRESTRIAL? Even through the shock and disgust, he’d been able to laugh at that one.
There had been so many phone calls at John’s apartment in the last week that he’d changed the number, but they got the new one somehow and the calls started all over again. Finally, John simply unplugged the phone and reconnected it only when he had a call to make. If anyone he knew really needed to get in touch, they would find a way.
The letters, which continued to arrive in a barrage, he dropped into the orange milk crate, which he’d stowed away in his closet. He didn’t have the heart to toss them, but neither did he want to have them lying around where they could eye him. Right now there was only one letter he had any interest in, and that was Connie’s, not that her re-entrance into his life at this particular moment had come without its own load of guilt and—somewhere deep down where he didn’t want to look too hard—a kind of anger.
Fuck, he thought, turning into his complex, healer. He laughed ruefully and pulled in to collect the mail.
* * *
Someone had been by to see him.
As John pulled open the screen door at his apartment, he saw the card stuck beneath the knocker. He pulled it free and looked at it. There was just one word, neatly handwritten.
Call
Beneath that was a phone number with a 704 area code. Local.
“Right,” John muttered, tucking the card into his pants pocket. “Let me get right on that.”
* * *
He was preparing for bed after a dinner of Raisin Bran and toast when he found the card in his pocket. Wearing pajama bottoms and a tee-shirt, he plugged the phone in, then took the handset and a glass of red wine outside onto the patio.
The sun was sinking down into the tall pines to the west, and John felt a sudden, poignant longing for the night sky. God, how long had it been since he’d seen the stars? Since he’d really sat out and looked at the stars?
A flare of anger bloomed in his chest as he punched in the number on the card. The other line was picked up after one ring.
“Hello?” A woman’s voice, groggy and a little slurred, like she’d been sleeping.
“You were at my apartment today,” John said, a wave of emotion rising inside him. Yes, this was why he’d called. A reasonable voice inside him said to cool his jets, this wasn’t him, but he ignored it. “What do you want? To tell me that I should cut my wrists? Maybe put a shotgun in my mouth? Drink a glass of Drain-o?”
“God, no,” the woman said, waking up now.
“Well, what then?” John was shouting now, knew he should stop before one of his neighbors started wondering what was going on. “Do you want me to make your fucking doggy feel better? Does Junior have diaper rash?”
“I want to help you understand.” Calm, placating, as if expecting these hysterics. That just pissed John off even more.
“Under-fucking-stand what? That I’m some kind of witch doctor?”
“Do you want to know what I have to say or not?”
“Not!” John yelled. “And never call me or so much as come within a mile of where I live again or I—”
Click.
Feeling ridiculously satisfied and still riding the crest of his outburst, John threw back the rest of the wine in his glass and went inside to get ready for bed.
Chapter 7
Rose prowled the nighttime streets of Atlanta, her bag slung casually over one shoulder. She’d broken into an apartment on the second floor of the building where she’d slept and had taken a shower and changed her clothes, so she felt fresh and clean. Her nerve endings were raw and active, picking impressions up from the very air.
God, she felt good. Despite her previous reservations about leaving the beach house in Florida, Rose couldn’t deny the sensations of pleasure singing in her blood. Here she was, a predator, following her predator’s instincts, moving according to impulses being relayed to her from some source even she couldn’t fully understand. And why did she need to understand? Always before, she’d been well served by her hunches. Doubting them had been nothing more than simple fear of the unknown and, as always, it was a fear she’d confronted and conquered.
All around her, people milled on the streets, talking and laughing, going in and out of shops and bars and restaurants.
Rose found a bench in a grassy park and sat for a while, watching. It was a warm night, but there was a cool breeze blowing from the east. In her knee-length muslin skirt and tank-top, Rose felt wonderfully bare and unrestricted.
The park was well lit and clean. A group of young men and women kicked a soccer ball around on one side, and on the other, several couples and families sat on the grass or on blankets. Someone had brought a radio along, and the Counting Crows played softly behind the sounds of voices.
A young couple walked by Rose hand-in-hand. The guy whispered something to the girl and she laughed and slapped him lightly on the arm. He said something else and she stopped him, put her arms around his waist, kissed him, and then laughed again.
In Rose’s stomach, something tightened. She stood up and walked on.
* * *
After another fifteen minutes of looking, Rose found what she wanted, a chintzy bar and grill called Frederick’s. It was lit up like a Christmas tree and boasted a spacious deck with a bar of its own.
Rose sat at the bar and ordered a beer. She sat drinking it, waiting for a fish to bite.
As always, one did.
He was a nice guy named Mike Clover. Not the kind of man who typically came onto her in places like this. She looked at his left hand and saw no ring, no tell-tale tan line. She finished her beer and he bought her another, and after maybe half an hour, Rose found herself utterly unable to look away from his face.
He was maybe thirty and tan, but not that fake n’ bake tan so many yuppies went for now. His eyes were deep brown, the skin crinkled at the edges from smiling or from some grief that didn’t come through otherwise in the way he carried himself. His hair was brown, too, though a bit of gray had just begun to salt his sideburns. In all, Rose found him gorgeous and caught herself staring more than once at his eyes, which seemed to suck her in.
Once, he caught her staring and laughed. “Are you all right?” he asked.
Flushing, Rose looked down at her hands, then back up, a smile on her own face. “I’m fine,” she said. “Just…I don’t know.”
“You looked lost there for a second.”
“Lost? Maybe…”
“Is something wrong?”
Rose thought for a moment. How best to handle this? Normally, she’d just play the part and edge her way out. Then again, normally she’d never found herself so infatuated with a man, especially one she’d only just met. She wanted something from this man, but what? She had to say something; he was starting to look worried. God, what was she going to say?
“Not wrong,” she said, or rather heard herself saying, “just strange. Really, I don’t know—I just think you’re beautiful.”
I
nside of her head, she screamed and felt her face turning red. She looked down.
Silence for a second, then he said, “Wow, thanks. That’s a new one for me. Beautiful, eh?”
Rose’s face felt like it had been doused with lighter fluid and set on fire. She put her hands up to cover it. “Oh my God,” she said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. ”
He was laughing, not in a mean way, but embarrassed almost. He said, “Well, don’t apologize. You just made my year.”
Rose took her hands away from her face and ventured a glance at him. He was grinning, and when he saw her looking, he raised an eyebrow, then licked a finger and touched his chest with it.
“Tsss,” he sizzled at her. “On fire.”
“You’re laughing at me?”
He leaned closer and shook his head. “No. Well, maybe just a little. But for what it’s worth, I think you’re beautiful, too.”
* * *
When they finished their beers, Mike asked Rose if she wanted to take a walk and she said yes.
It was the deep of night now, and as they made their way along the crowded streets, Rose found herself falling into a place she didn’t understand, but which she welcomed. Talking with Mike about his job, his life, was…pleasant. It felt good and natural. She wished she could stop time and keep this feeling forever.
“Where are you from?” Mike asked, looking over at her. He’d lit a cigarette and took a pull from it. He smoked like a man who loved to smoke, but who almost always denied himself the pleasure.
Rose held up a hand and said, “Mind?”
As he passed her the cigarette, his hand brushed hers and she felt a shiver throughout her entire body. Her skin felt hot and cold all at once. She took a drag and decided to be as truthful as was possible.