Sleepwalker (13 page)

Or have you Richard? You really don’t remember ever being there before?

...so he imagined himself on a lakeside beach, the same beach he and Samantha enjoyed on their honeymoon not too long ago. Only this time, he elected to be alone.

“Are you there, Richard? Have you found your place?” Delaney’s voice was soft, and unobtrusive.

Richard nodded.

“Good. Now I’m going to ask you a series of questions. I would like you to answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.” His lips had become very heavy, and he sensed a small pool of saliva forming in his mouth.

“That’s great, Richard. Now, soon you will hear a tone. A soft, low resonating sound. I want you to focus on the tone, find the pulse within it, let it enter your mind and settle there. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes.”

Without any other noise accompanying it, Richard heard the tone emerge from the bookshelf behind the couch. Delaney must have a stereo there; he hadn’t noticed it in the past.

“Can you hear the tone?”

“Yes.”

“Can you hear the pulse within it?”

Indeed, as he concentrated on the tone, he was able to distinguish a distant
thrump
that grew louder and louder as he continued to listen. It sounded like a piece of heavy machinery pounding out its progress far off the shore of the beach he mentally fixed himself on.

“Yes.”

As the pulse grew more intense, Richard had an almost psychic awareness of wind leaping up from the gentle crash of the ocean waves, cascading across his slightly burned skin like soft, massaging fingers. And when it grew louder still, he felt as if he were suddenly ensconced amidst the cool chamber of a bubble suspended just beyond the reality of his waking world, floating lazily out to sea. He could see the waves below, dolphins crashing through the foamy surface, their noses gently prodding the skin of the bubble as if it were a beach ball, sending it higher and higher, further away from the beach, way above into the wispy white clouds.

“Are you still with me, Richard?”

Delaney’s voice sounded as if it came from the heavens, as if he were an omnipotent being watching over him. All his life, Richard could never remember feeling so relaxed. Perhaps this idea of hypnosis had other benefits other than trying to find out what’s
wrong
?

“Do you still hear the tone?”

“Yes.”

“I want you to be fully aware of what’s happening, Richard. The tone, comprised of Theta waves, is massaging your cerebral cortex, the pleasure center in your brain. I’d imagine you’re feeling quite comfortable right now.

“Yes.”

“Good...and you’re still in your special place?”

At first Richard wasn’t sure if he should mention to Delaney that he’d left his special place behind for a ride in the clear, floating bubble. He decided it wasn’t important. “Yes.”

“That’s very good. We’re going to continue now. Now, I’d like for you isolate your thoughts, think only of falling asleep. It’s perfectly fine to remain in your place and feel all the textures and semblances of the environment you’ve chosen. But I want you to allow yourself to drift into a deep sleep. Imagine the climate around you and all its ambiences embracing your body, first your arms, then your legs, a warm feeling of goodness racing through your blood, into your head, your face, your chest. You’re breathing easily, calmly, you feel all the pressures of the day escaping your lungs in multitudes, cool clean relaxing breaths coming in to take their place. And as I count from ten to one, you will grow sleepy...ten...your lids are heavy, impossible to open, you’ve lost all ability to move...nine...and all you can do is relax, your fingers and toes are numb and fully relaxed...eight...your body, your chest, your back, your arms and legs, are loose and limp and lazy. Your mind is utterly devoid of all thoughts other than the effortless will to sleep...seven...and you see only darkness now, the special place you exist in carrying you towards the sympathetic embrace of darkness...six...your world of relaxation, that holds you in the darkness, has fallen asleep and you, Richard, follow suit...five...as your body and mind drifts deeper and deeper and deeper into the world of sleep...four...you will hear only the gentle beckon of my voice as it asks you questions...three...and you will answer those questions as truthfully and as honestly as you are able, as the ability to lie is not within you, only the power to reveal the truths that lay dormant in your mind...two...and as you fall asleep you will feel only calm pleasures and nothing more as you unearth the life that is you, Richard
Sparke
, and as I say the number ‘one’, you will be completely asleep... and...one.

“Richard, you are now completely asleep.”

“I can’t believe how different she looks,” Leonard said. “Her hair used to be thin, almost brittle I’d say, probably from the stress. She’d had no make-up on, at least during the few times I’d seen her. Even the clothes she’d worn told the story of her personality. Simple, drab, featureless.” Leonard started the car and backed out of the hospital parking spot.

Kevin cracked the passenger window, took a deep breath. The sounds of chirping birds filtered into the car. “She’s made some hefty changes, I’d say.”

“Big time. The wig, her clothes, even her body looks different.”

“Why do you suppose she was at the hospital?”

“My guess is as good as yours. Any number of reasons, I suppose.”

“Plastic surgery?” Kevin guessed.

Leonard raised an eyebrow, nodded. “Quite possible.”

“She might be trying to change her appearance for some reason. Of course we can easily assume that she’s making an attempt to start her life over again, a woman in her mid-thirties attempting to recapture her youth. But what if--now think about this for a second--what if she’s changing her look in an attempt to
hide
from someone. Because she doesn’t want to be recognized.”

Under ordinary circumstances, Leonard would’ve assumed that Kevin had been watching too many late-night detective movies; it seemed a bit too far-fetched to think along those lines. Yet, still, since the very beginning, Richard
Sparke’s
life had been surrounded by an air of mystery that Leonard could never get a good read on.

“Like crazy woman-beating Richard
Sparke
.”

“Exactly.”

“You know, Kevin, that might be worth checking into.”

Kevin lowered the window of the sedan all the way. A breeze flew in, cool, fresh, and satisfying to the lungs. “When was the last time you saw her?”

Leonard pulled out of the hospital parking lot, thoughts still focused on the woman with the bleach-blonde hair. Samantha
Sparke
, once an honest, plain-faced woman who trembled and cried and feared all the bad fortune inundating her life, now looking much like a lady with confidence, parading her new look replete with assurance and poise.

“Haven’t seen or heard from her since she dropped the charges against him.”

“Did she really drop the charges against her husband?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Well, it’s just that you never told me that part of the story.”

Leonard made a left onto Crandon Avenue, entering the Cedar Crest portion of Fairview. Here, Fairview’s prideful trees were abundant, the town having planted them some thirty years ago when the development was first built. On this block, a procession of tall sycamores ran the length of both sidewalks, their branches stretching over, tips embracing, forming a dense canopy of leaves that shaded the street below. Squirrels frolicked up and down thick trunks, unseen birds singing amidst the static sway of green leaves. Small children played on front lawns under the watchful supervision of their mothers.
 
A young woman wearing spandex shorts and a tank top jogged up the sidewalk, smiling and waving to Kevin as they passed by. Hughes, red-faced, returned the gesture with a lively wink.

“Looking for a little spice in your life, eh Kevin?”

“Never enough spice for the sauce, partner.” Kevin tossed Leonard an exaggerated wink.

Leonard smiled and groaned.
Self-assured single bastard
.

Through the outside rearview mirror, Kevin caught a last second peek at the jogger, then continued the conversation. “Let’s get back to the story. What happened with
Sparke
and his wife?”

“Okay...remember I told you that I’d interviewed them both after the battering incident? Well, when I first met with them, putting aside Samantha’s injuries, they appeared to be just another normal couple who’d experienced some tragic difficulties. Their infant daughter had passed away a week or two before, a casualty of sudden infant death syndrome. As you can imagine, that caused them both a great deal of grief, and as a result placed a tremendous amount of stress on their marriage. They’d only known each other a short time when they’d gotten married, and had done so only because Samantha was pregnant. So the loss of their child was a loss of their only true bond.”

 
“But what about her injuries?”

 
“That, obviously, painted a different picture altogether. It was remarkable looking at this woman, so thin and frail, who might have been attractive, but it was hard to tell, really, with all the bruises about her. Her face had swelled quite a bit, mostly at the cheeks. She had purple circles beneath both eyes. And to think she’d spent nearly six days in the hospital before I got a chance to speak with her. At first she refused to come forth to tell her side of the story. Then she agreed, but remarkably dismissed all wrongdoing on the part of her husband.”

“Why?”

“She wouldn’t explain herself. Just shook her head and said, ‘because it’s what I want to do’. To this day her reasons for doing this still elude me. Think about it, it makes no sense. Here’s a woman who, in a severely beaten state, manages to point the finger at her husband. Then later, upon questioning, drops all charges. I was dumbfounded. I tried to get her to change her mind, made three subsequent visits to her home, but it was no use. Eventually she stopped returning my calls altogether, and that was the end of the story. She never discussed her injuries, or how she believed to have gotten them, and Richard
Sparke
went on his merry way.”

“Did they continue to live with one another?”

“No.
Sparke
moved into the condo, and Samantha, as far as I know, still lives at the house they shared.”

Kevin’s eyes searched the street ahead for an answer. “It really doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

They reached the end of Crandon. Leonard made a left on Fuller Place. “No, at least it didn’t at that time. But then I did a bit of homework, and started noticing some inconsistencies in their story. Small circumstantial tidbits that appeared to point the finger
away
from Richard.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Well, for one,
Sparke
himself made the 911 calls, which, as you know, is unusual, given the circumstances. When we arrived at their home, he was visibly upset, kept pacing and crying and swearing that he didn’t know how it happened. That there must have been an intruder. The paramedics had arrived just prior to us getting there. Samantha
Sparke
had already been moved into the ambulance parked in front of the house, but two of the EMT workers told me that she’d pointed at her husband and yelled ‘he did it’ three times before passing out. When I questioned
Sparke
, he denied all offenses. Insisted he was asleep at the time of the attack. Of course, I found that to be odd, as apparently they were both sleeping in the same bed, and that Samantha was
attacked in the bed
.”

“So basically his contention was that he slept throughout the entire attack.”

“Pretty much. But then I noticed something else. As we scoured the room, I looked
Sparke
up and down for a good three or four minutes, and for the most part, the man was clean. No scratches on his hands, no blood beneath his nails, his face and arms untouched.”

“That’s right...you mentioned that earlier.”

“Also...he was wearing gray pajamas and had a bit of blood at his waist, but it was a smooth stain, not spattered, leading me to realize that it had seeped on him
after
Pamela was injured, not during. While he was lying still.”

“Asleep.”

“Exactly. The blood stain on the mattress was consistent in size and placement to the stain on his pajamas, just as if he’d been sleeping next to her. If he’d attacked her, he’d have haphazard spots of blood all over him. His hands would have been cut, his face too. And another thing, and this is the clincher I think, but before Samantha was admitted into Fairview hospital, detective Morris removed small shreds of flesh under her fingernails on both hands, meaning that she’d most definitely taken a few swipes at her attacker. Yet when I investigated
Sparke
, he had no visible wounds whatsoever.”

“So there
was
another attacker?”

“Sure seemed that way. But then again, there were no signs of forced entry into the house. So whoever attacked Samantha
Sparke
that night had either let themselves in--”