Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

"How about you? Have you learned to control your dreams?"

Her eyes searched mine and I saw in them a shared pain. We both knew the aftermath of violent death.

"Nightmares, Mr. Davis. I have nightmares that never leave me and no one can control. If you'll excuse me, I have a long drive. I live in the country where roads don't get plowed and the snow stays until it melts."

She pushed the Call button for the elevator to the parking garage.

"It's possible that Delaney didn't commit suicide but that his dreams still caused his death," I said.

The garage elevator opened. She stood, her back to me, as three people stepped onto the elevator, turning around when the doors closed.

"You're suggesting he and Walter Enoch were both murdered?"

"And maybe Regina Blair, though I've got nothing to go on there except that she was a dream project volunteer like Delaney and Enoch."

"And was it their dreams or their participation in our project that proved fatal?"

"It could be both," I said.

"You look as though you are concerned about more than that. Are you worried about me? Do you think there is a madman at work who might threaten me because I have nightmares?"

"There may be."

"You needn't worry. I've known for a long time how my life will end."

"You sound like a fatalist. I thought scientists were rationalists."

"I know what I know," she said.

"Knowing how you'll die is one thing. Knowing when is another."

"The when will take care of itself," she said. In the meantime, will you protect me?"

"Yes."

She patted me on the arm. "Then I won't worry. I'll leave that to you."

Nancy flagged me as I passed the front desk.

"You leaving already?" she asked.

"Hell, I'm lucky they haven't fired me yet."

She laughed. "I don't think luck's got anything to do with it."

"Are you a religious person?"

"I know that Jesus Christ is my Lord and Savior, if that's what you mean," she said.

"I heard you reciting the Twenty-third Psalm this morning. I couldn't tell whether that was a prayer or a warning."

"A little of both."

"Should I be worried?"

"I'd worry if people who come in here keep on dying. I heard about the mailman on the news. He's the third one in a month. People better wake up and pray."

Lucy was waiting in the circle drive. I slid into the passenger seat. Before I could buckle the seat belt, I was shaking and grunting, my back arched and rigid, my neck wrapped around the headrest. Concentrated activity, like the day I'd put in, held the tics at bay but when I took a break, they swarmed. The guerrilla attack didn't last long, maybe ten seconds, but it made time stand still.

"How about if I drive?" Lucy asked when order had been restored.

I appreciated her pragmatic response. It took me a long time before I was able to shake off the shakes like water off a duck's back, but Lucy got it right, acknowledging my condition without dramatizing it.

"Great idea. So, how was your day? Did you find a car?"

"Drove past some dealerships," she said, pulling into traffic.

Though not yet dark, drivers crept along, leading with their headlights, wary of slick spots on the pavement though much of the snow had been pushed to the curb. We got caught in the aftermath of a six-car chain reaction rear-end collision that turned a ten-minute drive from the institute to our house into a thirty-minute crawl.

"Didn't see anything you liked?"

"Didn't look."

"What did you do all day?"

"I took a tour."

"What kind of tour."

"The dead man tour. It was great. No waiting. I started at Walter Enoch's house, then swung by Tom Delaney's apartment, and finished up at Regina Blair's parking garage."

I should have been surprised but I wasn't. She'd told me that she had read Delaney's and Blair's incident reports. I could yell at her, tell her to mind her own business. I could make her pull over, give me the keys, get out, and call a cab. I could move out of her house, stay at Joy's while she was out of town, and look for a new place if that's what it took to get rid of Lucy. But I didn't do any of that because she had done what needed to be done, knowing that I couldn't and that I was too bullheaded to ask for her help.

"How'd that work out?"

She flashed me a grin that showed her molars. "Fair to middling. I'll show you what I've got when we get home."

While we were stuck in traffic, I called Kate Scranton.

"You busy tonight?" I asked her.

"Nothing too important. Catching up on paperwork."

"Come on over and bring your laptop."

"What about my toothbrush?"

"Absolutely. And dinner for four wouldn't hurt either."

"You're having a party, I'm bringing dinner, and lap-tops are included?"

"It will be good for your bottom line. And don't scrimp on dinner. I've got an expense account."

"Who was that?" Lucy asked.

"Kate Scranton. She's a jury consultant and a psychologist and she's an expert in reading facial expressions."

"I'm no expert, but from the 'cat-that-ate-thecanary' look on your face, she's more than that," she said, the flush I felt in my face egging her on. "She's the one, isn't she? Your friend from Saturday night."

I nodded. "Am I that easy?"

"Make it tougher on me next time, keep your tongue in your mouth."

"I'll try to remember that."

My next call was to Simon Alexander.

"It's payback time," I told him.

"What did I do?"

"Hooked me up with Milo Harper. I need you at my house. Bring your laptop, a couple of printers, and a lot of paper. Kate's bringing dinner."

"What's the name of the game we're playing?"

"The dead man."

Roxy and Ruby jumped us when we came home, forcing us onto the kitchen floor to play with them. Lucy and I sat opposite one another, our backs against cabinet doors. Roxy settled into Lucy's lap, raising her head so that Lucy could stroke her neck and belly in one continuous motion. Ruby planted her front paws on my chest, her eyes boring into mine until I conceded her dominance.

"That dog owns you," Lucy said.

"I could do worse."

I lifted Ruby off the floor, spun her onto her back, rubbed her belly, and let her go. She scrambled to her feet, ready for the best two out of three falls. Roxy sprang to life, not wanting to be left out.

"You're on your own," Lucy said. "I'm going upstairs and clean up."

"Dinner," I announced to the dogs, clapping my hands.

Ruby eats at the speed of light. Roxy dawdles while Ruby watches, waiting for a chance to poach her food, forcing me to stand guard to make sure Roxy doesn't go hungry. I grabbed my laptop and loaded Walter Enoch's dream video from my flash drive so I could watch it while the dogs ate.

The doorbell rang as the video finished downloading. Roxy bolted for the front door. Ruby froze, torn between greeting company and raiding Roxy's bowl until I picked it up. She gave me a dirty look and then raced after Roxy.

I opened the door. It was Kent and Dolan. Cockapoos are known for their indiscriminate affection and weak bladders when they are excited and nothing excites them more than greeting someone new. The dogs clambered over both agents before they could cross the threshold, peeing on their shoes.

"Goddamn mutts," Dolan said.

He kicked at Roxy and Ruby. They dodged his shoe and retreated into the house behind me.

"You touch my dogs and I'll shoot you with your gun."

"Easy. Easy. We've got a search warrant," Kent said, reaching into his overcoat and handing it to me.

The warrant was for any written or electronic communications to or from Wendy Davis.

"You've also got dog piss on your shoes. Take them off."