Mania (9 page)

Some evenings later, the two brothers arranged to meet for drinks at the Blue Note, a jazz club on the waterfront beneath Pike Place Market. At just after midnight that night, Sam would be murdered.

Sara was waiting with Nick in the small lot behind his apartment building at eight o’clock when Sam arrived to pick his brother up. As Sam pulled the BMW to a stop, they were standing close together, touching one another with their hands. “I’m not sure why I’m even going,” Nick whispered into her ear.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Sam asked Sara, leaning his head out of the driver’s-side window.

Sara shook her head solemnly, and Nick was grateful for her reluctance.

“Come on,” Sam cajoled. “It’s going to be fun. There’s a new band playing, up from New Orleans.”

“I’ll see you later tonight,” Sara said to Nick, ignoring his brother.

“I’ll try not to be too late.”

“Just give me a call when you’re on your way home,” Sara said. “I’ll meet you back here.”

Inside the club, the music played quietly. The band was led by a young guitarist who called himself Ricky Rainbow. Watching him, Nick had the impression that he was reaching down into the guitar to pluck notes from inside it, one after the next. He had to remind himself that the man’s fingers were strumming its strings. He sipped his vodka tonic, keeping his eye on the small band at the front of the small, dark club.

“He’s pretty good, isn’t he?” Sam said. “He can’t be more than twenty. He’s a real talent.”

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” Nick said.

“Imagine being twenty years old and being able to play like that.”

“Did you hear me, Sam?”

Sam turned toward him. There was a look on his face that Nick couldn’t read.

“I said, I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

“I heard you, Nick. I just don’t know what you’d have me say. I’m not sure I even understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

Nick was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He couldn’t make sense of his brother’s apparent hostility.

“I need your help, Sam.”

“You need
my
help? Come on, bro’. You’ve been ignoring me for the past couple of weeks.”

“I’ve been feeling strange,” Nick said. The music was getting louder, and Nick wasn’t certain his brother could hear him. “I thought it was going to get better, but it’s only been getting worse.”

“You and Sara are getting pretty damned serious.” Nick was confused by the bitterness in his brother’s tone. “That’s all I see happening. You should be on top of the world. But I don’t know, maybe it’s not the relationship you thought it was going to be.” Sam let his words trail off, as though he was himself perplexed by the tone of his voice.

“I’m seeing things.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Nick?”

“Things. I don’t know. Images.”

Sam shook his head. “Come on, wake up. What the hell do you mean? Hallucinations?”

Nick nodded his head. “Yes. Hallucinations. I’m looking at something right in front of me, and it becomes something else.”

“You’re still not sleeping, are you?”

“Or I’m hearing something. Like right now. The guitar. I know it’s a guitar, but I’m hearing it as a voice.”

“What do you mean, Nick?” Sam could barely contain his disbelief. He leaned toward his brother, challenging him to explain.

“He’s holding a woman in his hands, and he’s making her sing.”

Sam smiled, unease creasing his brow. “He’s playing a guitar. Come on. You know that.”

“It’s like I’m dreaming when I’m awake.”

“Maybe you should see someone.”

Nick’s lips formed a grim line. He raised his eyes.

“It sounds to me like you’re worn out, but this is too big for me. I’m your brother. I love you, Nick. But I’m out of my depth here.” Sam reached across the small table and grabbed his brother’s shirtsleeve. “There’s a doctor I know. A psychiatrist. I’m doing some work with him at the company. He’s a real good guy. Alan Barnes. I’ll give you his number.”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Nick said, embarrassed. “These guys charge a fortune.”

“I’ll pay.” Sam gave Nick’s shirt a tug. “You know that. Don’t think about the money. You go see Barnes, and have him send the bills to me.”

Nick’s gratitude was heartfelt. “I keep remembering things,” he said at last.

“Tell it to the doctor, bro’.”

“Things about you, Sam.”

His brother remained silent.

“Things that happened to us. Only I’m not so sure whether they happened or not.”

The music was getting louder, drowning out Nick’s words.

“Tell me what happened that day,” Nick said. “Tell me what happened on the lake. After that man fell through the ice.”

“You saved my life,” Sam said. “You want to know what happened that day on the ice? You saved my life, Nick.”

Nick shook his head. “What did I do to him, Sam?”

Sam was looking at him. The music had gotten too loud to continue this conversation.

“Tell me what happened,” Nick said. “Tell me what I did.”

Sam lay his hand onto Nick’s forearm. Nick registered his brother’s alarm, and he became aware of how rapid his own pulse was through the thin fabric of his shirt, beating against Sam’s fingers. His face was unshaven, his hair unwashed. He understood how disoriented he must have appeared to his older brother. “You really do need to see this guy, Barnes,” Sam said. “I mean it.”

“Why won’t you just tell me? Damn it, Sam. Damn it! Can’t you see how broken up I am?” Nick yanked his arm from Sam’s gentle grip.

“He was going to rape us,” Sam said. “The bastard was going to kidnap us, Nick. Molest us, I don’t know.”

“Maybe he just wanted to steal our food or our jackets. Or maybe he just wanted to talk to us.” Nick leaned forward, dropping his head in his hands, then slid his palms up over his ears. “I gotta get out of here,” he said, twisting his head from side to side. The music was pounding inside his skull. The beat of the drum had become footsteps, the guitar a woman’s scream. “Jesus. I’ve really got to get out of here.”

Sam was getting to his feet. “Sure,” he said, reaching to place a hand onto Nick’s shoulders. “Sure, Nick. It’s getting pretty late anyway. You need to get yourself some sleep.”

Nick walked two steps in front of his brother, pushing his way past the crowd of tables and the people standing in a crush along the bar. He threw the door open, let the cool, moist air splash against his face, grateful for the salt breeze blowing in off the water. The sound of the music inside the club faded as the door closed behind them. Their footsteps echoed as they walked down the deserted waterfront in silence, toward the parking lot beneath Pike Place Market where Sam had parked his car. The blackness of the night surrounded them, hiding the stricken expression on Nick’s face, the blank expression on his brother’s.

“Maybe Sara has something to do with all this,” Sam said as they approached the lot. A few steps back, he had slipped $600 in twenties into the pocket of Nick’s jacket, and he was rubbing his hands together, as though the bills had left a grimy residue on his fingers. His breath steamed in the cold, foggy air. “I don’t know. Your obsession with her, it kind of reminds me of the way you were back in Madison. With Elizabeth, I mean. You remember Elizabeth Munroe, don’t you, bro’?”

These were the last words that Sam spoke to his brother.

Inside the men’s room at the Hudson Hotel, Nick focused on the orange and black Nikes visible beneath the bottom edge of the gray toilet partition. He raised himself on one knee. His head was spinning from his confrontation with the homeless man. The bum had been strong, and his sudden violence had caught Nick off guard. The back of his skull was aching where it had connected with the tile.

Pushing himself up onto his feet, he watched the man inside move to exit the stall. He poised himself to intercept him. Just as the stall door began to swing, though, the bathroom door burst open, and three homeless men trundled in, shoving one another, pushing toward the sink and the urinals. The man wearing Nick’s shoes got lost in the commotion, blocked from Nick’s view. His hand, bound in dirty rags, darted out and grabbed hold of the door before it shut behind the three men. He pushed his way into the hallway before Nick was able to see his face.

Nick had to see the man’s eyes. He had to identify him as Sam’s killer.

Nick took a quick, impulsive step toward the door, but one of the men raised his hands to Nick’s chest, stopping him. He was looking Nick up and down, measuring him, realizing that he was out of place, lost. This photographer didn’t belong here inside the shelter.

“Where you going in such a hurry, chum?”

Nick tried to push the man’s hands away from him. The violence attracted the attention of one of the other men. “What’s a camera like that cost you, friend?”

“You cut yerself?” the first man asked, peering at Nick’s face.

“Let me pass,” Nick said.

“How you cut yerself like that?” The man raised one of his dirty hands to touch Nick’s cheek.

Nick felt his blood boil. The man wearing his shoes was getting away, and these men were slowing him down, antagonizing him for no reason except that he wasn’t one of them. He pushed the man away from him. His fury surprised the man, and he stumbled backward against the wall, then fell to the floor, dazed and confused. The other two men took a step back, assessing Nick through fresh eyes. The blade of a homemade shank flashed in the fluorescent light, and the man holding it laughed, opening his mouth wide and baring his teeth. When Nick looked into his eyes, he felt a cold sweat break out on his face. The man was insane, like an animal excited by violence.

The shiv swished in front of Nick in a dazzle of light, and the crazy man howled. The anger that had welled up inside Nick’s chest melted into panic. When he took a step backward, retreating from the shiny blade, the man on the floor grabbed one of his legs, nearly tripping him. Nick tried to pull himself free, but the man yanked back, and Nick lost his balance. His eyes darted toward the door.

“Get off me,” he said, turning on the man at his feet. He planted his trapped leg on the ground as solidly as he could, then twisted and kicked the man, aiming at his head. The man reacted quickly enough to protect himself. Nick’s foot landed ineffectually against his hands, but at least he had freed himself. He faced the other two men. “Get that knife out of my face,” he said, surprised by the strength in his voice.

Once again the crazy man howled with high-pitched, demented laughter, slicing the blade in front of Nick’s face.

“Grab ’im, Willy,” the man on the floor said.

Nick turned to face the third man. He hadn’t yet appreciated how big the man was—easily half again his own weight and three or four inches taller. Nick tried to read him, aware of the resentment welling in his eyes. The man took a step forward, raising his huge hands from his sides. The crazy man screamed feverishly, and the sound reverberated through the small tiled room, piercing Nick’s eardrums. The blade glinted in the light.

Then the door burst open. A man dressed in an elegant gray suit and red silk tie stepped into the bathroom, letting the door close behind him.

“Dr. Barnes,” the large man said, taking a step backward. Not, Nick thought, as if he respected the doctor, but as if he feared him. The man at Nick’s feet pulled himself up from the floor. The shiv disappeared back into the crazy man’s pocket. The room fell so quiet that it felt to Nick as if his ears were ringing. Nick stared at the doctor, trying to remember where he had heard the doctor’s name before. It wouldn’t hit him until sometime later that Sam had mentioned Dr. Barnes to him at the jazz club on the night of the murder.

Barnes glanced at Nick, and Nick understood that the doctor wanted him to leave. Nick would have liked to thank him, but he knew that the peace that Barnes’s presence had restored was fragile.

“He brought his camera in here,” the man with the knife said.

“He pushed me down fer no reason,” the other man said.

“I din’ mean nothin’, Dr. Barnes,” the large man said. “I din’ mean ta hurt him.”

“It’s okay, Willy,” Barnes replied. “You, too, Clarence,” he said to the man with the knife. “Nothing happened. Right?”

“Nothin’,” the large man said.

“You okay?” Barnes asked Nick.

Nick assessed the doctor. He looked about forty, tall and athletic. He was looking at Nick not with concern but curiosity, taking in his dangling camera, trying to figure him out. “I’m fine,” Nick said at last. “Thanks.”

The crazy man chirped softly. The sound a dove makes, Nick thought, only it sounded threatening somehow. Nick resisted the impulse to look at him.

“You got stars in your eyes, Jerome?” Barnes said.

This made the crazy man laugh, only lightly this time.

“Why don’t you get yourself on out of here?” Barnes said to Nick.

Nick hesitated, then, gathering himself, took the doctor’s advice. He found himself wondering what would transpire behind the door after it closed behind him.

Back out in the hallway, the noise of the disorderly line of men died the moment Nick left the bathroom. A path cleared in front of him, all the way to the front of the building. Nick stepped from the dimly lit, steamy hallway into the dark, cool night, aware of the fresh air filling his lungs, glad for his freedom.

The man wearing his shoes would be long gone by now, he figured. But Nick had something to go on at least. A concrete lead he could take to Stolie.

Nick stood on the sidewalk in the shadow of the Hudson Hotel, peering across the street into Pioneer Square. It was getting late, and he had to hurry to meet Sara for the gala. Cutting back through the square would save him a good ten minutes. Still, he was hesitating. The park was lit with only a smattering of working street lamps, and the light from the street barely penetrated the darkness. The vagrants Nick had seen earlier had vanished into nooks and crannies, but Nick could hear a few muffled voices from somewhere inside, without being able to place them. Nick shivered, uncertain whether to continue. The wind picked up, and the trees rustled, drowning out the voices and throwing geometric shadows across the pavement at his feet, giving depth to the night.

Nick became aware of a man staring back at him. Nick’s breath caught in his throat. He maintained his composure, determined not to give himself away.

At first, the man was barely discernible from the shadows some twenty or thirty feet into the park. Nick kept still, concentrating on the dark figure out of the corner of his eye. Gradually, he brought the man into focus. The silhouette of the man’s long black coat. The greasy clumps of his long hair. The rags on his hands. And then at last, emerging from the darkness, his own orange and black running shoes on the man’s feet, their silvery reflective strips glimmering in weak light. Nick’s heart pounded against the walls of his chest. Nick glanced up at the street lamp next to him. Its dull yellow glow briefly defined his face, revealing him to the killer across the street.

The man’s eyes narrowed. Then he turned and ran. Until that moment, Nick wasn’t certain that he was going to give chase.

Impulsively, Nick sprinted after him. The light from the street lamp faded behind him. He was aware of the terrain changing through the soles of his shoes as he crossed from pavement onto a patch of lawn. He followed the man’s footsteps, sometimes closer, sometimes becoming more distant. Still, he lost him in the shadows. The broad trunk of a tree loomed out of the darkness, and he swerved to avoid it. In another instant, he raised his hands to protect his face from some overgrown brush.

Nick didn’t see the body until it was too late. It emerged in front of him like a black bundle of rags. His foot sank into something soft, something fleshy. He tripped head over heels, landing a few feet beyond the corpse, the palms of his hands scraping against the gravelly soil.

Holding his breath, squinting at the vague outline of the lifeless body behind him, Nick sat still, listening for the man he had been chasing. Nothing. Except for the wind rushing through the trees, the night was silent.

Picking himself off the ground, he approached the dark, shapeless corpse. He took his cell phone out of his pocket. It hadn’t entered his mind yet to call for help. What he needed was light. He flipped the phone open, illuminating its LCD screen, and directed its dim bluish glow toward the body like a flashlight. The body was lying facedown, hidden in shadow, but it passed through Nick’s mind that there was something familiar about it.

He reached his hand toward the corpse. His fingers were on its shoulder when he realized that this wasn’t the body of a man, but rather only of a boy.
He’s still warm.
Nick lifted the dead boy’s shoulder and turned him over.

For a split second, before the phone’s LCD panel abruptly went dark, Nick stared into the face of Daniel Scott. His eyes were wide open but entirely blank, like a blind man’s eyes. His mouth mimed a hideous, silent scream.

Nick dropped the boy’s limp shoulder, jerking away from the contact. He was up on his feet, running, before he knew what he was doing. He didn’t see the park bench in front of him. It hit him like a missile. His shin cracked as it struck its unforgiving wood slats, and, crying out in pain, Nick spun to the ground. He was up seconds later, running again, trying to escape the rasp of his own breathing, fighting to make sense of the shadows in front of him, chasing the distant sounds of the city. The rush of his scrambling, frenzied flight through the park crescendoed into a roar. And then, with the intensity of an explosion, there was only silence.

When Nick opened his eyes, the spiny treetops above him were lit white against the black sky. He stared at the rustling branches, dazzled by the crisp halogen halos clinging to the trees’ remaining leaves.

An aura of bright light was emanating from the center of the park. Gradually, Nick became aware of the distant babble of voices, then the squawk of a police radio and the hum of a few idling engines. His shin was throbbing where he had collided with the bench. Sharp needles of pain shot through his body when he raised himself onto his elbows, then picked himself up onto his feet.

“You fan out over there. If there were any witnesses, we’re gonna want to talk to them.”

The policeman’s voice was close, no more than twenty feet away. Nick looked down at his clothes, trying in the dim, shadowed light to assess his appearance. Wondering how long he had been out, he ran his fingers through his hair and wiped off his face in the crook of his elbow. He searched his pockets for his phone. Unable to find it, he scanned the area around him, trying to recall if he let go of it after he had used it to light Daniel’s body.

The footsteps and voices came closer. “Hey. You there!”

Nick bent down to pick up his camera, then raised his eyes to the policeman. He squinted in the beam of his high-intensity flashlight.

“Step out where I can see you.”

Nick realized that he was standing half tangled in the branches of a large bush, and he took a careful step away from it, into the beam of light. “It’s okay,” he said at last, finding his voice. “I’m a photographer. With the
Seattle Telegraph
. I heard there’s a body out here somewhere. Another killing.”

“Stay where you are,” the uniformed officer said.

“You mind lowering that flashlight?”

“Put your hands in the air, sir.”

“My name is Nick Wilder. I told you, I’m a photographer with the
Telegraph
.”

The officer placed his hand on Nick’s chest, frisking him. “You got any ID?”

Nick reached carefully for his wallet. “That’s my press card,” he said, holding his wallet into the light. “And my driver’s license.”

The officer peered at Nick’s face, then at last lowered the flashlight. “The crime scene’s over there,” he said, pointing its beam into the darkness. “Why don’t you come with me? I’m not sure what the CO wants us to do about the media.”

“Am I the first one on the scene?”

“We’ve only been here ten minutes ourselves,” the officer said.

Detective Stolie was kneeling beside the corpse when the cop led Nick into the clearing where Daniel Scott had been killed. A small generator was running nearby, and several portable halogen lamps had been plugged into it. Directed in a circle around the crime scene, they gave the park floor the atmosphere of a lit field at night, as though a bubble of daylight had been trapped beneath the canopy of branches overhead.

Stolie had flipped the body over, and Nick could see Daniel’s face clearly. The soil beneath him was soaked with blood, and his thin clothes had been shredded and punctured with stab wounds. Nick winced at the violence inflicted on the boy. He was raising his hands to shield himself from the horrifying vision when Stolie glanced at him over his shoulder.

“Do me a favor,” he said to Nick, “and keep back, would you? The scene’s still fresh.” He turned toward the cop who had led Nick into the clearing. “Stand him over there by that bench, would you? Then get back out there. Search the park. We need witnesses.” He watched Nick step toward the bench where he had banged his shin. “No pictures yet,” he said.

Nick didn’t notice his cell phone, lying on the ground just beside the bench, until Stolie stood up. Peeling the latex gloves from his hands, the policeman waved a crime-scene photographer over. Nick took a step toward his phone. The detective turned to face him, though, before he could lean down to pick it up.

“It looks like we got ourselves another one,” Stolie said. “Would you believe it—no one other than the prostitute’s kid.”

“Claire Scott’s boy?” Nick barely recognized his own voice. “Daniel?”

Stolie was looking down at his watch. His mind was elsewhere, and he didn’t seem to notice how quickly Nick had remembered the boy’s name. “Body’s still warm. I doubt he’s been dead more than half an hour. How’d you get here so fast?”

“I was in the neighborhood.” Watching the taller man approach, Nick tried to sound unconcerned. He resisted the impulse to drop his eyes to the steel gray cell phone in the dirt at his feet. “What about you?”

“Hmmm? We got a 911 call. Anonymous.”

“You mind if I take a couple of pictures now?”

The detective glanced behind him. The police photographer was positioning himself above the body, adjusting his camera to the light. “Why don’t you give us a few minutes first, huh?” Approaching, he looked Nick in the eye. “Maybe you and I should have a little talk.” Remembering something, the detective stopped and signaled to a group of cops standing at the edge of the light. “Yo, Harris,” he called, raising his voice to get another policeman’s attention.

Nick used the interruption to take a small step closer to his cell phone.

Stolie dangled the stained latex gloves he had been wearing in the air. “Bring me a baggie, would you? I’ve got to catalog these.”

A cop gathered a few things from the evidence staging area and headed toward them, making a large detour around the corpse to avoid disturbing the crime scene.

“I have to admit, Nick,” Stolie said, turning to face him again. “I’m surprised to see you here. You really sure this is what you want to be doing? So soon after your brother’s murder, I mean.”

The cop approached Stolie, and Stolie slid the latex gloves into a large Ziploc bag.

Again, Nick used the pause to inch toward his phone.

“Mark it with the others,” Stolie said to the cop, still working the gloves into the bag. “You know what you’re doing with this, right?”

“Sure,” the cop reassured him. “I’ve been doing it all night.”

Stolie watched the uniformed officer walk back around the body, then turned once again to confront Nick. “The truth is,” he said, “you showing up here saved me a trip.”

Straightening, Nick returned his gaze, confused.

“I was on my way over to your place when I got this call.” The detective was scrutinizing him. “Listen,” he said, “it wasn’t going to be a friendly visit. I don’t have good news. I’ve got orders to place you under arrest.”

The words sank in. “I don’t understand.”

“For the murder of your brother.”

“You really believe I murdered Sam?”

“It’s not what
I
believe. It’s what the lieutenant wants. You’re our only suspect. I told you before. You’re the only one with a motive, and you were there. You don’t have an alibi.”

Nick was shocked. “What motive could I possibly have to kill my brother?”

“That’s the thing—”

“You told me just this morning,” Nick continued to protest, “that I had two days. You told me you were going to try to find the killer.”

The detective checked behind him, glancing at the few police officers gathered around the corpse. He lowered his voice. “That’s the thing,” he said again. “There’s been a new development since this morning.”

“What new development?”

“We know about the life insurance policy, Nick.”

“What insurance?” Nick asked.

“Your brother had a one hundred thousand dollar life insurance policy. You were the sole beneficiary.”

Nick was stunned. “You think I killed Sam for one hundred thousand dollars?”

“Are you saying you didn’t know about the policy?” Stolie countered.

Nick shook his head. “No,” he said. “I didn’t know it existed.”

“The thing is,” the detective said, “the policy was taken out just this summer. June tenth, to be exact. And it was taken out online. It’s one of those no-doctor-visit policies. No one had to see anyone else. No one even had to pick up the phone. A couple of clicks, and the policy was issued.”

Nick’s mind was whirling. “What are you saying?”

“Did you know,” the detective asked him, “that we can trace the computer now when you go online onto a Web site and order something? Whatever—a pair of jeans, a bottle of shampoo, books. An insurance policy.”

Nick took a deep breath, waiting for the detective to complete his accusation.

“The policy on Sam’s life, Nick. It was ordered from your computer.”

Nick felt the air escape from his lungs. It felt as if he had been hit in the solar plexus. He was aware of the warmth of the detective’s hand on his shoulder, keeping him from falling.

“You have to understand,” the detective said, “it looks pretty bad. Lieutenant Dombrowski thinks we’ve got enough now. To make the charges stick, I mean.”

“Wait,” Nick pleaded, sensing that the detective himself did not want to make the arrest. “Wait a second. When did you say the policy was taken out?”

“In June.”

“Sam borrowed my computer this summer.” An image of his brother standing at his door, holding a small black case, thanking him, flashed through Nick’s mind. “This was months ago—I practically forgot.”

“He had his own computer at home,” Stolie said, skeptical, “and he had another computer at his office.”

“His computer froze up, and he borrowed my laptop for a week.” Nick understood how convenient his explanation sounded. “Sam worked from home a lot. I’m telling you, I let him borrow my laptop.”

The detective was shaking his head. “I don’t know how you could prove it.”

“You could look at any e-mails he sent. Maybe you could trace those to my computer, too. Or anything else he bought online in June. I don’t know—you could find out where he took his computer to be repaired.”

The detective nodded uncertainly. “I suppose we could do that.”

Nick seized the opportunity to try to exonerate himself. “There’s something more. I told you, I was down here already—that’s why I was able to get here so quickly.”

The detective’s eyes didn’t leave Nick’s face.