Dave Zeltserman - Bad Thoughts

All he could do, though, was watch so that was all he did. Patiently. Night after night. Waiting for when things would change. Because, in his heart, he knew they would. That it was only a matter of time.

And he was right.

One of his times out he learned how to slip between the physical and dream worlds. It happened accidentally, without him even trying. Once he knew how, it became as easy as breathing. As easy as pulling wings from a fly. Instead of just watching Shannon, he began to visit him in his dreams. Methodically working on him, breaking him down piece by piece. Following his plan to the letter. Because death by itself wouldn’t be enough.

Winters patiently stuck to his plan. Not doing too much at any one time, but little by little nibbling away at Shannon. All the while waiting for his sentence to run out. He refused the early paroles that were offered and bided his time, waiting for when they would have to release him unconditionally. By this time the Correction Office knew what he was and they knew what he would do once he was out, but when his time ran down they had no choice. They had to set him loose.

That was a month before Janice Rowley’s murder.

Thinking about Shannon had brought the bile up into his throat. He spat on the floor and then lay gingerly back among the dirty sheets. The blood seeped from his face as he concentrated on the inside of his eyelids.

Charlie Winters’s breathing became more shallow. His facial muscles relaxed and a lightness softened his features. He had a busy night in front of him. So many people to visit…

When the alarm went off Shannon jumped out of bed and asked Susie if it was okay if he took the first shower.

“I want to get to work early. See if I can make up for the time I lost,” he said, forcing a half smile.

As he stood under the water Susie opened the shower door. Her face was set in a troubled frown.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Still feel a little beat, but sure. Why?”

“Both your pillowcase and the sheets on your side of the bed are soaked through.”

“Maybe I got some virus,” Shannon said. “But I feel better now.”

Shannon turned back to the shower. He could feel Susie standing by the open shower door watching him. In his mind’s eye he could see her frown deepening, becoming more worried, more pained. It seemed a long time before she moved away.

Of course, Shannon wasn’t feeling any better.

That he was still having nightmares worried him. And this specific nightmare… Was there any truth to it? Were Phyllis Roberson and the other two women killed by different people? As he tried to sort it out in his mind, an uneasiness spread through him. The more he thought about it, the more twisted his insides became. Like a sheet caught in a hurricane.

As it turned out he didn’t leave any earlier for work. He hung around waiting for Susie. After dropping her off at the Fresh Pond train station, he doubled back to the apartment and called Elaine Horwitz’s office. The receptionist was able to squeeze him in for ten-thirty.

Elaine Horwitz had a pasty, almost sickly look about her. She sat at her desk, fidgeting, unable to look directly at Shannon. Her attitude was detached and vaguely hostile. Shannon apologized for abandoning her at the restaurant. Horwitz seemed taken aback by the apology.

“I had no right going with you,” she mumbled, some red blotching her pale skin.

“You were just trying to help me through a rough time,” Shannon said.

Horwitz’s blush deepened. She fidgeted with her glasses and tried to look at Shannon. Her mouth fluttered briefly, unable to keep its composure. “How are you doing, Bill?”

“Not so good.” He told her about his blackout, his trouble at work, and finally about his dream.

She sat quietly, taking it all in. “This person you dreamed about-you’re sure it’s the same man who murdered your mother?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you must’ve seen pictures of him at some point,” Horwitz thought out loud, “or maybe it’s simply the image you’ve imagined him to be. It sounds like an anxiety dream, similar to when a college student dreams about having to take an exam for a class he’s never attended.” She ran a finger along her lip, pausing. Then she smiled slightly. “That’s all there is to it, Bill,” she added. “You’re anxious about the psychological evaluation you’ve been ordered to undergo. There’s nothing sinister underlying it.”

Her appearance shifted subtly, becoming more confident, more self-assured. “Tell me about your blackout,” she asked, meeting Shannon’s eyes.

He shook his head. “I can’t remember any of it. All I know is I was gone for five days and when I came out of it I was lying in a basement in Roxbury.”

“When exactly did you black out?”

“It was the day after we went out to dinner.”

Elaine Horwitz nodded knowingly. “That’s why you didn’t make it to our session.”

Shannon didn’t bother to correct her. Their appointment had been for three o’clock. He remembered later that day, sometime past six o’clock, he had been sitting at the Black Rose pouring bourbon into himself. It was after that he disappeared.

“I’d like to have you hypnotized,” Horwitz said.

Shannon found himself nodding. It was something he wanted, too. Elaine Horwitz would find out the truth about how he had been tortured, but that didn’t matter. He could live with it. What he couldn’t live with was not knowing what he had done while he was gone. He needed to know if there was anything behind that dream. He asked her when they could do it.

Mark Bennett sat in front of Shannon, his tight, curly hair damp, his lips forming a bland, pleasant smile. He led Shannon through a series of exercises, eventually sending Shannon down an imaginary spiral staircase. When Shannon reached the bottom, Bennett had him place a hand in front of his face and open his eyes.

“Concentrate on a spot where your fingers and hand join.” He paused, giving Shannon some time to follow his instructions. “Have you found that spot?”

Shannon murmured affirmatively.

“Strings are now attached to your fingers,” Bennett told him. “They’re pulling them apart. You can’t fight it.”

Shannon’s fingers splayed outward, his hand tensing as he struggled to keep them together.

“You can drop your hand and relax. The strings are gone.”

Bennett turned sideways to Horwitz. “Okay,” he murmured under his breath, “let’s see what we can dig up.”

He addressed Shannon in a soft monotone, asking him if he could remember the last place he was on February seventh. Shannon told him it was a bar in Cambridge, the Black Rose.

Bennett placed Shannon back at the bar. He had Shannon describe the inside of it in detail.

“Is anyone sitting next to you?”

“There’s a heavy blond on my left. The seat on my right’s empty.”

“How many drinks have you had?”

“Nine.” Shannon counted them slowly. His speech became slurred. His facial muscles tightened, forming the sullen look of a man who’s been drinking hard.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you wearing a watch?”

“No.”

“Is there a clock on the wall?”

“No, but the blond next to me’s got a watch.”

“Can you see it?”

“Yeah, let me look… it’s six-thirty.”

Horwitz made a noise. She indicated to Bennett to ignore her. “Sorry,” she murmured, “just realized I have to bill one of my patients for a cancellation.”

Bennett turned back to Shannon and asked him to move forward by ten minutes. “Do you know where you are?” he asked.