Joel Goldman - The Dead Man

Enoch's face filled the next frame, the camera shooting him from the neck up, magnifying his moonscape features. The dark paneled wall behind him was familiar. The camera pulled back a few inches, enough to reveal patches of blue and red tartan plaid fabric, confirming my memory. The video had been shot in Enoch's house. He was sitting in the chair where his body was found.

I froze the video, ran upstairs, and dug my Bose headphones out of the bedroom closet, not wanting to miss anything. Back in the kitchen, I took a deep breath and clicked play. Anthony Corliss's voice filled my ears.

"Before we talk about your dreams, Walter, tell me about your accident."

Walter's hand found his chin, crept over his mouth.

"I don't like to talk about it."

"Why? Because it wasn't an accident?"

Walter shuddered, looking away from the camera.

"No reason to talk about it."

"Walter, c'mon now. Look at me," Corliss said from behind the camera. And Walter did. "It's just you and me here, nobody else, and we've known each other a while now. We're friends, you and me, and I'm a doctor. A psychologist. You know that. I've told you about all the people I've helped who've suffered so bad for things they didn't even begin to deserve, things you wouldn't wish on a dog. I can help you if you'll let me."

Walter shifted in his chair. "You should go. I should never have let you in the house. Now you know what I've done."

Corliss ignored the request. "I'm glad you let me in, Walter, because now I can help you. I'll find you a lawyer and I'll testify for you. Tell the judge what a bad time you've had. After what you've been through, they'll go easy on you. Right now, though, you've got to tell me about your dreams. They've got to be terrible. You tell me about them and I'll help you find some peace."

Walter blinked his thin, stubby, pale eyelashes. His chest heaved as he struggled to breathe. "I am what I am. I got no need to make peace with you or anybody."

"I'm not talking about me or anybody else, Walter. I'm talking about you. Your pain is written in the scars all over your face. Let me help you."

Walter turned his head to the side, pressing his cheek into the back of his chair. "I'm fine. I don't need nobody's help."

"Something like your face, it was probably your mother. Fathers use their fists or a belt. Mothers use water. It's a subconscious connection to the womb. That's why when they go crazy some mommas drown their babies. Others boil them."

Walter ground deeper in the chair, a trickle of tears rolling over his ruined face. Corliss let the silence hang, waiting for him. The dead air lasted a couple of minutes, the camera detailing Walter's squirming anguish. He broke the silence, his head burrowed into the cushion, muffling his sobs.

"My mother poured boiling water on me. I was eight years old. She said I was a monster."

"Were you?"

"Not yet."

"I believe that, Walter. No way you deserved that. No way at all. But that's what she did and here we are. Can't un-ring that bell, can we? So let's concentrate on the part we can do something about starting with your dreams, Walter. Let's you and me get a handle on that."

Corliss's hand appeared in the frame, handing tissues to Walter who wiped his eyes and blew his nose, rolled his shoulders back and down and faced the camera, red eyes and blue lips the only colors in his washed-out face. He coughed, wet and raspy, gulped air, and nodded at the camera, his voice at first soft, gathering strength.

"It's the same dream. Not every night, but most nights. Ever since she burned me. She's running away from me and I'm chasing after her, calling her but it's like she don't hear me because she never stops. Not till I get lost. Then I'm caught up in these dark green vines and they're climbing all over me, pulling me down in the ground and I'm crying for my mother but I'm not making any sounds so she can't hear me. She doesn't know I'm in trouble and I need her. Then the vines, they turn into a big pond and the water's up to my neck and I see my momma in the middle of the pond and the water is shallow there cause I can see her, all of her except for her feet. She's smiling at me and I know she wants me to swim over to her so I start swimming and the closer I get the hotter the water gets and it's getting deeper, not shallower, and I can't touch the bottom. Then the water gets in my mouth and nose and I can't breathe and I'm sinking like a stone. Momma reaches down in the water and grabs me and I tell her I'm so sorry for whatever it was that I did. She calls me a monster, says the devil is in me. Then she shoves me down deeper in the water and the water is burning me. I can't breathe cause I'm swallowing the water and my insides feel like they're on fire and I know right then that I'm gonna die."

"But you don't die. You wake up," Corliss said.

"I don't want to. I want it to be over."

"It will be, soon, I promise you," Corliss said.

The screen went blank but I couldn't take my eyes off it until I realized I was the one holding my breath, the effort shattered by a fresh round of spasms and whiplash, thinking as much about Anthony Corliss as I was about Maggie Brennan. She struck me as a vulnerable mix of steel and sadness. I remembered the promise I'd made to protect her and hoped I could keep it.

I lumbered into the living den on unsteady legs, staring at the wall Lucy had designated for Walter Enoch, wanting to add my answers to the questions she had written. But the gears in my brain had gummed up and all I could do was collapse into the recliner. I promised myself that I would rest a few minutes and then try again, a promise that was broken when Lucy woke me and put me to bed.

Lucy and I sat at the kitchen table, sipping coffee and picking at stale bagels. I looked out the window where barren trees, mud-streaked snow, and an iron skillet sky blended into a dull tintype. I was having a herky-jerky morning and felt as flat as the weather.

Ruby was dozing on the floor while Roxy scratched my leg, wagging her tail, which was code for will work for belly rub. I ruffled her beard and she dropped to the floor and rolled on her back, spreading her legs in a pose that mimicked Britney Spears at her most overexposed but for Roxy was charming. I rubbed and Roxy wagged, both of us agreeing that no one could ask for more from a relationship. Her unconditional enthusiasm gave the day hope.

Lucy had struck out at Delaney's apartment complex the night before. A few people knew who he was but none claimed him as a friend and no one had ever been in his apartment. She'd gone to the Kansas City Star 's distribution center, found the night shift circulation manager, and gotten the same story. Delaney picked up his papers on time, delivered them on time, and didn't cause any trouble. The manager said he was quiet and kept to himself.

I played Walter Enoch's dream video for her. She drained her coffee and shoved her bagel aside.

"Okay. Now we know that Enoch let Corliss in his house for the video," she said. "It's not likely that he opened the door for anyone else. That puts Corliss at the top of the list of people he could have let in to kill him."

"There's more. I talked to Corliss about Enoch yesterday. He admitted knowing him and recruiting him for the dream project. He said that Enoch had been his mailman but he acted like he didn't know anything about the stolen mail until he read about it in the paper. He lied to me and I want to know why."

As I spoke, my head rotated hard left and down, my left ear meeting my raised left shoulder in a fighter's clinch while my right shoulder dropped and my torso pivoted to the right. The spasm held me for a three count then released and repeated. I let out a long breath.