Atmosphere (20 page)

"You know, I haven't bought any of this yet," Hector said, starting the car. "As far as I'm concerned, our work is done. We've got the man that committed the murders in the alley, in less than eighteen hours, no less."

"I'm not looking to sell you, Hect. I only want you to check it out with me. I hate to repeat myself, but this story runs much deeper than just Harold Gross, and I'm prepared to prove it to you."

"You said that already."

Frank nodded, rolled his eyes. "Just to prepare you, there's much, much more—beyond what I've just told you."

"You got more theories, huh?"

"Care to hear me out?" Frank smiled. He'd built momentum, and was now willing to spill it all.

"One thing at a time, Smoky. Let's go to Village Clothing first and test out your theory, see if it holds any water."
 

They pulled out of the parking garage, waving towards the attendant (who elected not to return the friendly gesture), then headed downtown.

B
obby Lindsay sat silently, brooding in the family dining room, his mother, step-father, and lawyer sitting opposite him, each of them ineffective in attempting to coerce additional information regarding his involvement in Carrie's murder. They dug desperately and incessantly, like treasure hunters, seeking any other response than
I just don't remember doing it
.

When not trying to pry words from Bobby's lips, Jo-Beth Lindsay argued relentlessly with her husband Jake and Bobby's lawyer Marvin Korn, their incessant words shooting back and forth like ongoing volleys at a ping pong game. For reasons still unexplained, Bobby had had a great deal of trouble making any sense of the English language since he'd been accused of the heinous crime, so their harried utterances sounded much like foreign words, garbled and unintelligible.

Bobby held his head in his hands as the three adults flung their frustrations back and forth in gunfire-like fashion. He rubbed the sweat from his palms into his dampened brow, staring through his sunglasses into the whorls of finished oak surfacing the dining room table. He tried hard to make sense of the conflicts consuming his thoughts—he still possessed the ability to communicate with himself inside his head, and wanted nothing more than to understand what the hell was going on around him—all at the same time trying desperately to block out his parents' painfully incomprehensible arguments. Their words went on and on, back and forth, Bobby blah blah blah eating at his brain. He realized he couldn't take it any longer: their voices, grating his spine, abrasive and cutting like long fingernails slowly scraping across the surface of a chalky blackboard. He rose from the table, ignoring their hails for him to return to his seat. He moved to the center of the living room, near the tapestry couch, leaning down to scratch an itch beneath the homing bracelet attached around his ankle, its heavy metallic grip chafing against his skin, leaving a crusty redness at the point of contact.

When the itch was relieved, he slowly stepped to within a few feet of the front window. He peered outside, staying back just far enough to avoid being glimpsed by the hordes of media gathered behind the police barricade set up just across the street, and from the police who were providing surveillance around the clock.

The whole damn scenario seemed so unreal.
He had been accused of murdering of his sister!
It sounded so horrific. Unbelievable. Two days following her disappearance, the police had searched the house, combing the place from Bobby's downstairs apartment all the way to the attic. When they finally revealed to the family that her mutilated body had been found in the hallway closet next to his parent's bedroom upstairs, Bobby felt as if he'd been struck in the heart with a great blow.

At once he refused to accept the loss of his sister, and had stayed unbelieving of the dreadful truth: that Carrie had been horribly murdered, her body stuffed into his very own suitcase like a slaughterhouse discard.

Apparently his vehement denial led police to believe that it was he who had committed the crime, and they started hounding him, keeping tabs on him, watching his every move.

Finally they brought him in. During the first interrogation they thrust a long line of sickening crime scene photos under his nose, one after another, each one depicting a bloody and brutal scene, the unendurable process seeming never to end. It was the first he saw of Carrie since her disappearance, and he had prayed it would be the last.

He didn't understand why
he
was being accused of her murder. And later rape, no less. Sure, things weren't right in his mind—the confusion, the amnesia—that much he realized, but he also knew he wasn't capable of such a heinous act: her innocence violated, her body beaten and sliced.
Murdered
. No, no, no, he could never do that.

So what evidence had the authorities uncovered that would lead them to believe that
he
was the guilty party? Throughout the investigation he knew they would be watching him close. His parents too. But they quickly turned their focus on him, questioning him, prodding him for answers.

Suddenly, inexplicably, at the onset of the first interrogation, he lost his ability to understand much of what was said to him. In turn he could no longer reply clearly or intelligibly to those querying him. Words spoken to him sounded like a strange foreign language, and all his defensive responses escaped his throat in uncontrollable, nonsensical blurts. This behavior in conjunction with his amnesia surely made it seem that he was hiding something, or was feigning insanity, and he was immediately bludgeoned with accusations. He realized that he had no choice but to sit mum, as his ability to comprehend and answer their intense probes was in unexplained collapse, his memories prior to Carrie's murder now completely lost.

When they finally came to the house and slapped the cuffs on him and read him his rights, the paranoia he experienced all along gave way to a sickening emotion so intense that words alone could never express how he felt.

Bobby's past hadn't been so decorated. He spent a good share of time hanging out with the wrong people, getting into trouble, involving himself in minor public disturbances and other menial crimes. Bored rich boy stuff. Once he'd been arrested for tossing a brick through the windshield of a parked car—his most serious offense. But never under any circumstanced had he ever considered hurting another human being, much less his little sister!

Staring out the window into the illuminated night, he felt the gaze of a single policeman pinning him, and he shied away. Damn! If only he could regain control of his crazed thoughts, remember something—
anything
—from the missing block of time in his mind, then perhaps he would be able to speak up and defend himself, maybe even solve the crime and exonerate himself.

He turned and moved back to the dining room table, his mother, step-father, and lawyer facing in his direction. Beads of sweat trickled down his spine.

"You ready to tell us something, Bobby? Mr Korn can't defend you properly unless you tell him the truth."

Bobby felt his jaw clench in frustration, the proper words unable to spill from his tongue. His tensed-up muscles sent jolts of pain into his head. "If I could remember anything, I'd tell you." It was still the only defense he could voice.

The three adults shook their heads, brows furrowed, their frustration as severe as Bobby's. Marvin Korn stood, arms stretched wide, his heavy-set torso pressing heavily against the buttons on his shirt. "Bobby—"

"I'm going to sleep. It's late, and I'm tired." A new utterance, a means of escape perhaps.

Jo-Beth Lindsay stood, placed an arm on Marvin's shoulder and squeezed. "That might be the best thing right now," she said, staring at Bobby. Her blond hair was still in place, despite all the harried events the day had brought. "Maybe when Bobby wakes up, he'll remember something." She looked at her son and smiled, its denotation clearly weak and false.

Something about that smile doesn't seem right...

Bobby nodded and paced slowly from the room, feeling a chill of shudders race down his spine, as if he had a gun pointed at his back. He opened the door leading to his downstairs apartment and took the flight one step at a time, careful not to allow his tired legs to stagger. He reached the bottom and passed the alcove where the washer and dryer leaned against the wall like a pair of modernized igloos.

The peace and quiet the apartment offered upon entering gave him immediate escape from the cruel, persecuting world. He lay on his bed, in the dark, staring across the room to the door in the kitchen. A policeman stood in the drainage recess at the bottom of the cement steps outside, his grainy moonlit shadow gently swaying back and forth behind the sealed curtains.

For the first time since coming home from the courthouse today, Bobby closed his eyes and attempted to allow his mind some rest. The month-long investigation had been hell, today being no exception, and he prayed for his mind to erase
that
affliction, just as it cleared his memories prior to Carrie's murder.

He thought about everything that had taken place this morning, his being led from the holding cell, into the courthouse, facing the judge. At the time he would have bet his inheritance that the rest of his natural life would be spent rotting behind bars, the inmates strongly expressing their dissatisfaction with child-killers like himself. One could then imagine the shocking relief he felt when the judge actually went ahead and set bail, and then when his mother plopped down the big-time dough—it was like a heaven-sent dream come true.

Riding home in silence, he pondered the confusing situation, trying to make sense out of what had just occurred, his mother signing for the right to his freedom. It didn't make any sense, and it really bothered him because he couldn't comprehend her motivation. Why would his mother put up a million dollars cash when he had been accused of murdering her only other child?

Something about her smile tonight didn't seem right.

She's hiding something.

Staring into the darkness, his mind wandered, beyond today, beyond the interrogation—what was his name? Bolero? Balloro? Damn, if only he could remember something, anything from the missing time in his memory before the discovery of Carrie's body.
Think, Bobby, think, what's the last thing you remember doing before you found yourself being questioned for the murder?

He rubbed his bald head. Although the apartment was warm and comfortable, sweat smeared across his stubbled scalp.

Sweat
. Suddenly, he remembered something. He had been lying right here in bed, his body drenched in sweat. Sweat. And...he had been listening to the radio.

In an effort to retrace his actions, he leaned over and switched on the clock-radio sitting to his right on the nightstand. Immediately static blared through the small tinny speaker. The frequency indicator in front, now aglow, showed the station pointer set all the way to the right, past the 108 frequency on the FM dial. He fumbled at the small serrated dials fixed into the side of the clock-radio, the surrounding darkness masking his effort to distinguish the volume dial from the tuner. He found the edge of one and gently spun it away from him.

Volume. The static rose, sending twinges of discomfort through his ears.

He moved the dial back down to its previous position, then stopped and turned it back up a bit.

He heard something.

Nearly buried within the grainy hiss, a...
pulse
emanated, a deep resonating beat emerging from the clock-radio's speaker like a heartbeat heard through an ear pressed against a naked chest. Bobby moved closer, gently inching the tuner in search for a clearer signal. The radio's dial squeezed hard against the right side of the display, moving ever so slightly.
   

The static suddenly vanished, and the pulse loomed forth.

Thrumph...thrumph...thrumph
, so eerie, like a heartbeat. Bobby placed his hands upon the radio as if it gave off warmth, feeling the syncopated vibrations within its plastic shell. They felt wonderful, each magical throb stimulating all his senses, auditory, tactile, olfactory. Suddenly, he could see in the dark, even through the sunglasses. He could smell his mother's perfume through the ceiling. And he could
feel
, oh yes he could feel something
wonderful
, a rush of euphoria tingling through his body, introducing him to a high even more potent than that narcotically or sexually induced.

Mysteriously though, as these pleasurable sensations carried him away from his misery, he began to realize a familiarity with them, a familiarity that told him he had felt this way before. And as each pulse brought about more and more pleasure, his memory resurrected itself little by little, each and every vibratory injection rebuilding bits of memory in his mind. Excited, he gripped the radio tighter, desperate to seek more from the deep mystery within its plastic shell. More vibrations. Holes appeared within the dark wall of lost time in his memory, engrams of recollection breaking out like fingers poking through a sheet of cellophane. He could feel it coming back to him.

All of a sudden a remembrance arose, more intense than anything he could recall in the last few weeks, and he had to control his immediate desire to yell out. So crystal clear, a particular word standing out at the forefront of his mind like a lone soldier perched atop a battlefield's highest hill.