The Sleepwalkers Page 4

  That thing’s bonier than the last model Caleb dated, thinks Bean, and he almost laughs out loud.

  Ahead, the headlights blaze upon the side of a mobile home. It appears to be better kept up than the one they saw earlier, but not by much. An old Dodge Diplomat sits near the doorway, with four flat tires and several potted plants adorning its hood. The dog is still barking.

  “Shit,” says Caleb as the screen door opens. A fat man with a rifle, no shirt, and a big red mustache steps out, glaring at them, and starts walking toward the car.

  “You might be a redneck if . . . ” says Bean.

  “Just shut up,” says Caleb. “I’ll do the talking.”

  The man with the gun steps up to the window. The gun isn’t pointing at them, but it’s not exactly pointed away from them either.

  “Yer trespassin’.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” says Caleb. “I just had a question for you, and I thought you might be able to—”

  “Askit.”

  “Alright,” he says, with a glance at Bean. “Do you know what happened to your neighbor?”

  “Jim? Hurt his back at the lumberyard.”

  “No,” says Caleb. “The other neighbor. In the big house over there?”

  “Oh,” the man grunts and nods. “The law-yer. Yeah. He’s gone, alright.”

  “Do you know where he moved to?”

  “Didn’t move. Didn’t take any of his stuff, anyway. Was going to go over there and see if there was anything useful in the place, but I didn’t want to be stealin’. If ya ain’t got yer honesty, ya got nothin’.”

  “So you don’t know where he is?”

  “Nope.”

  Bean leans over, impatient, and whispers to Caleb, “This redneck doesn’t know anything—he’s too stoned. Let’s get out of here.”

  “Shut up,” says Caleb, shoving Bean back to his side of the car.

  “Excuse me, sir?” says Bean. “Do you know where we might be able to score some crippie?”

  “Beg yer pardon?”

  “Shut up, Bean.”

  “You know,” says Bean, “mar-i-juana?”

  “I don’t use no dope, and I don’t want no druggies on my property. Now you boys had better get on outta here.”

  “Sir, I’m sorry for my friend,” says Caleb. “I just wanted to know—”

  “You boys git. I’m within my rights to shoot ye, you know that? And with all that’s been goin’ on around here, ya’d be smart not to poke yer nose around.”

  “Please, the lawyer next door was my father. Do you have any idea where he might be?”

  This seems to soften the man. He sucks his teeth for a second, nodding to himself. “Ya ain’t from around here, are ya?”

  “Well, I grew up here, but no. I haven’t been back in a long time.”

  The man nods again. The reflection of the headlights off the trees casts a strange shadow on his face. He spits.

  “People ’round these parts just disappear sometimes. I was you, I’d go and ask the witch.”

  Chapter Three

  TRANSCRIPT—Patient #62, SESSION #76

  (In this session, the patient discusses her ongoing delusions regarding the staff of the DREAM CENTER.)

  DIRECTOR: Well, it’s very nice to see you again.

  PATIENT #62: Thank you, Director.

  DIRECTOR: So, let’s pick up where we left off, shall we? Do you remember?

  PATIENT #62: Yes. I was telling you about the lump on the side of my head.

  DIRECTOR: That’s right. And didn’t I and two other doctors examine you and confirm for you that there WAS no lump on the side of your head?

  PATIENT #62: Yes, Director.

  DIRECTOR: Good. So what shall we talk about today? Any more dreams?

  PATIENT #62: But there IS a lump on the side of my head.

  (The patient is touching her temple.)

  PATIENT #62: I can still feel it right now. It’s a little smaller, but . . . And I looked at it—

  DIRECTOR: How could you have looked at it? There are no mirrors in your room.

  PATIENT #62: I used a spoon. And I saw stitches. It’s an incision. You cut me open and did something to me. I know you did. And I know you’re not really a doctor.

  DIRECTOR: How have the nightmares been?

  PATIENT #62: What?

  DIRECTOR: Your mother sent you here because you were having terrible nightmares. You were clawing your face in your sleep. Getting blood all over your pillow. Do you remember?

  PATIENT #62: Yes.

  DIRECTOR: Have you been having nightmares?

  PATIENT #62: No.

  DIRECTOR: Then it would appear our sessions are having some effect.

  PATIENT #62: But the incision—

  DIRECTOR: There is no incision. Let’s talk about something else. What about the voices? Are you still hearing them?

  PATIENT #62: I’ve always heard them. I’m not schizophrenic.

  DIRECTOR: No one said you were. Who is it that speaks to you? You said last time you think they’re spirits?

  PATIENT #62: Yes. Most of them are just, like, whispers and shrieks, but there’s one of them I can understand. But just in little pieces.

  DIRECTOR: And what does this “spirit” say to you?

  PATIENT #62: This morning, it said that the clock—no, the clocks— clocks, clocks, the clocks are ticking.

  DIRECTOR: That’s very interesting.

  PATIENT #62: I’m not schizophrenic.

  DIRECTOR: No one’s saying you are. So who is this “spirit”? Does she have a name?

  PATIENT #62: How did you know it was a she? I didn’t say it was a she.

  DIRECTOR: Yes, you did. You just did. What’s her name?

  PATIENT #62: I don’t want to talk about it.

  (The director makes a note on his pad.)

  DIRECTOR: You may actually have what’s called paranoid schizophrenia.

  It’s very treatable with modern medications, so you have nothing to be afraid of, alright? Okay?

  PATIENT #62: You’ll never let me out of here.

  DIRECTOR: Of course we will. Once we get you healthy.

  PATIENT #62: No, no, no, no, no. . . .

  (At this point, the patient begins crying inconsolably. The director’s remaining questions are unintelligible, and he ends the session.)

  THE WINDSHIELD IS FROSTED OVER with tiny buds of dew. Outside, the sounds of a forest waking up fill the air—scuffling of leaves, calling of birds. Somewhere a dog is barking low and long. It’s still cold in the car, but stripes of yellow sun are starting to fall across the side windows, evaporating away the spots of moisture, burning clarity out of a translucent blur. Something shoots past outside—probably a big eighteen-wheeler stacked high with pine lumber. The car rocks in its aftermath and a great, roaring “whoosh” washes out all other sounds before dying away into the wind.

  “We could have gone to Vegas. Cancun. Fiji. The Cayman Islands. The Grand Canyon—I’ve never even been there, isn’t that crazy? We could’ve gone to Australia—done some surfing, adopted a pet kangaroo, learned how to use a boomerang. But no. My best buddy would rather go to Podunk, USA, and now—ouch, shit—I have the worst kink in my neck. Dude, we could’ve gone to—”

  “I get it,” Caleb interrupts. “I didn’t sleep much either, alright?”

  Caleb is scrunched in the backseat, huddled under one of his dress shirts. His eyes feel dry and swollen. Bean is slouched in the passenger seat, which is reclined almost far enough to rest on Caleb’s restless, cramped legs.

  “So what do we do now?” Bean asks. “What’s the plan?”

  “I don’t know,” Caleb says, thinking. “But I’m not really cool with the fact that my dad is just gone. I think we should try to . . . I don’t know . . . find him.” He looks at his friend, trying to gauge his willingness for such an undertaking—after all, Bean only signed up for a trip to the beach and a week of Southern-fried cooking, and so far he’s already been threatened with a rifle and f
orced to sleep in a car.

  Bean begins to nod, but is instantly stopped by the pain in his neck. He curses under his breath, then says, “Alright. Where do we begin?”

  It takes two passes through town to find the sheriff ’s station. It’s a trailer set back from the road with a little green sign next to the entrance that reads hudsonville sheriff, protecting your peace. They pull in the driveway, (it’s dirt again, and Bean wonders to himself if anyone in this town can afford pavement). There are two squad cars in the driveway. The young men head up to the door. Though it can’t be later than eight in the morning, already the chill has burned out of the air and a heat so thick it’s almost palpable radiates through everything. As the old folks say, “It’s gonna be a hot one.”

  They get out and head up the drive, Bean in one tire rut and Caleb in the other.

  “Okay,” Caleb says, “just stand there, look pretty, and shut up this time, please. I like you and everything, but I really don’t want us to have the intimate type of relationship that develops between two dudes in jail.”

  “Point taken,” says Bean. “Mum’s the word.”

  They tromp up the unpainted wooden steps and hear a faint sound coming from within, a low rumble of a voice, saying “. . . can’t make a goddamn cup of coffee. . . . ”

  They glance at one another. Knock or walk right in? They don’t want to interrupt anything, but standing on the stoop all day doesn’t have much appeal either. Caleb knocks—he’s always one to err on the side of caution. As he does, Bean twists the little steel knob and pushes the door open and enters. Caleb follows him.

  The place is small, of course. A counter faced with wood paneling runs along the front. There’s a large map hanging on the wall to the right and a row of plaques leading back to the area behind the counter, which is populated by a couple of desks, each boasting an outdated, yellowing computer and a messy stack of files. The place smells like mildew and cigarette smoke.

  The friends exchange another glance and step up to the counter, which is when they see the sheriff and his deputy. They’re both near the back of the office, standing over a table laden with a coffeemaker and its accoutrements. The deputy is a woman, in her late thirties, with massive thighs and coppery-colored hair, which is feathered and hair-sprayed up in front into something like a rooster’s crest. The man is barrel-chested, bowlegged, maybe fifty years old. He has a bushy, salt-and-pepper mustache and eyes that blink too much. The two must’ve been arguing, because Caleb can still feel it hanging in the air, but now they’re staring blankly at their two visitors.

  The woman looks from them back to the sheriff. He gestures impatiently with a gruff “Well?” and gives her a little shove in the direction of the counter.

  She marches up to the desk, a little flushed from anger or something else, and drawls, “Hello, boys. What brings you to these parts?”

  “Well,” Caleb and Bean say at once. Bean laughs and shuts up, deferring to his friend, but his laugh seems to hang in the air for a second, like a voice in a cave. Caleb imagines there isn’t much laughter in this office—especially if the way Sheriff over there is glaring at them now is any indication. He clears his throat.

  “My name’s Caleb Mason, and I just had a question—or something to report, maybe. My father is missing, I guess, or he’s not at home, anyway, and—”

  “You check the bar?” the lady asks. There’s a boredom in her voice that’s no accident. An attitude of such complete disinterest can only be achieved through years of practice.

  “No,” Caleb concedes, “but—”

  “Check the bar,” the woman says, and turns away from the counter. “No, it’s not like that. I mean, he’s been gone for a long time. Like, for probably a year.”

  “At least,” Bean agrees.

  The woman sits back at her desk and shrugs. “There’s a lotta bars,” she says, “First thing to do is always to check them all.”

  “My dad isn’t a drunk,” says Caleb evenly. “He’s an attorney. Michael Mason.”

  The woman opens her mouth to speak, then doesn’t. She looks over to the barrel-chested man, who has been sitting at his desk reading the paper. At this, he looks up, folding the paper in half.

  He squints at the boys from behind his counter and blinks. “You Mike Mason’s boy?” he asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You haven’t been around these parts in a long time, have ya?”

  “No, sir,” says Caleb.

  The man lights a cigarette, staring at them, blinking at them. He blows the smoke out his nose in a snort.

  “Well, he ain’t here, I’ll tell ya that much. When was the last time you heard from him?”

  “About . . . ” Caleb begins—and he falters, because he doesn’t know. He doesn’t remember. But it’s been a long time.

  “You two were estranged, were ya?” the sheriff asks.

  “I guess so,” says Caleb, looking down at his hands on the counter.

  “Well, I heard some folks say he went up to Georgia for some big, fancy job. Some people said he went to Arkansas for something, to teach at a college or something like that. Your father was a book man, wasn’t he?”

  “I guess so,” says Caleb.

  “Yep, well,” the sheriff says. “Book folks don’t usually stay around here for too long. Only thing for sure is he ain’t here and he ain’t been here in a long time.” His demeanor is becoming downright jovial now, amused.

  “Do you know how long he’s been gone?” Bean asks.

  “Nope,” says the sheriff, smiling. “Long time.”

  “And nobody knows where he went?” Bean says. “Shouldn’t you investigate something like that? I mean, he didn’t even call his own kid and tell him where he went—don’t you think that’s strange?”

  The sheriff shrugs. “Round here we investigate crimes,” he says.

  “Strange ain’t a crime.”

  “Maybe a crime was committed!” Bean presses. “The guy disappeared and left all his stuff at the house. Who moves and doesn’t take anything with him?”

  “Bean—” Caleb says.

  “No, no,” says Bean, “I just think they should do their friggin’ job and investigate. And if they don’t want to, that’s fine. We can just get someone else to come out and investigate for them. My dad knows a bunch of private investigators.”

  The barrel-chested sheriff ’s grin melts into a frown, then to a fierce scowl.

  “Boy, you gonna come in here and tell me what my job is?” He rises from his chair and sidles up to the counter. Now that he’s this close, it’s pretty easy to tell that he’s huge, much bigger than either of the boys.

  “No,” says Bean, with a voice still full of righteous defiance. “I’m just saying, when someone goes missing, one way or another you have to find out the truth.”

  The sheriff takes another drag off his cigarette. “Nobody knows the truth. The truth is unknowable. All you can know is what folks tell ya. And I’m tellin’ you, Mike Mason moved up to Georgia. Everybody knows that. I suggest you look for him up there.”

  “Okay,” says Caleb before Bean has a chance for another outburst. “We’ll look up there. Thanks for your help.”

  He takes Bean by the shoulders and steers him out the door.

  “Hey, Billy,” the cop says. Bean is already halfway down the steps, but Caleb pauses in the doorway. “Watch out for your friend. This ain’t a good town to have a loud mouth in.”

  Caleb tries to smile, but something in the sheriff ’s blinking, serious-as-granite stare squelches it, so he just nods and ducks out into the mounting Southern heat, shutting the door behind him.

  “God, I hate pigs!” Bean says, too loud.

  “Be quiet, man.”

  “No, they’re so smug. And they don’t even give a crap about people. I mean, obviously there’s something going on, right? I mean, your dad is missing. Like, missing. Like, disappeared off the face of the earth, and they won’t even get up off their porky, doughnut-munching a
sses to check it out! I mean, obviously something is going on.”

  They’re standing at the car now, Bean on one side, Caleb on the other.

  “Maybe he just left, Bean. Maybe he just moved to Georgia. People move all the time.”

  “But he didn’t even tell you, man,” says Bean, with a slap to the roof of the car for emphasis. “I mean, he’d tell you, right?”

  Caleb’s arms are folded and he stares up the driveway. He sighs.

  “Right?” says Bean.

  Caleb sighs again. “When I was a kid he used to disappear. Sometimes for weeks. His law practice would shut down, I guess, and our lives would shut down and we’d just wait for him to come back. A few days or weeks would go by and he’d come back. No explanation, no ‘I’ve got a mistress,’ no ‘I went on a drinking binge.’ He’d just show up and act like everything was okay.”

  “Maybe he was in the CIA,” Bean offers. “Sorry, man,” he quickly amends.

  “It’s alright,” Caleb says. “I didn’t mean to get all ‘After School Special’ on ya. My point is just—”

  “He might have left and not called you,” Bean says. “I get it.”

  “He could be in Georgia. He could be in Brazil. Who knows, who cares?”

  “Yeah,” Bean says, “I think this calls for the Universal Problem Solver.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Bacon and waffles, on me.”

  “Amen, brother. Let’s roll,” Caleb says, his despondence dissipating.

  Bean smiles as he gets in the car. As much as he screws things up, he sometimes has a knack for setting them right, too.

  TRANSCRIPT—Patient #62, SESSION #77

  (In this session, the patient attacks the director in an unprovoked episode of violence.)

  PATIENT #62: I know what you’re doing and I don’t trust you. None of the other patients do either. We all know what you’re doing.

  DIRECTOR: Well, hello. That’s quite a greeting. And what do you and the other patients suppose I’m doing, Patient Sixty-two?