Night Visions by Thomas Fahy Read Free Book Online Page A

to the airport in quiet agitation, as if there were no more words left to speak. The gray sky hung low like damp sheets from a clothesline, and the tires pulsed at regular intervals across the uneven surface of the bridge. Th-thump. Th-thump. Th-thump.
    Maybe she’d never loved him at all.
    Th-thump.
    The possibility terrified him more than her silence.
    Th-thump. Th-thump.
    â€œI love you.” He blurted.
    She smiled uneasily as they pulled up to the terminal.
    Faster than God created the world, their love was over. And six months later, he was still wandering in the desert looking for answers.
    â€œSorry about this morning,” he says now. “I had no idea what we were going to see out there.”
    â€œNo, it was my fault. I shouldn’t have gone.”
    â€œThat’s not true.”
    â€œReally, it’s no big deal. I’m fine.”
    Frank sits on her futon couch as she pulls up a desk chair. In the awkward silence, he tries to decide if he should say anything else about the morning, but she doesn’t give him a chance.
    â€œI made a few calls to social services and victims’ advocacy groups, like you asked. They’ve had no new hires or volunteers in the last three weeks. I want to try a few more places, and I’m still waiting to hear from a friend at the San Francisco AIDS Foundation. I probably won’t know anything more till Monday.”
    â€œAfter the car this morning, I’m not too hopeful.”
    â€œWell, I’ll keep trying. What did you find out?”
    â€œUnfortunately, not much. The victim had no ID. No match on his fingerprints in any criminal or federal employee database.” He pulls out a file from his satchel. “Let’s see. The corporation sent a pathologist to help with the preliminary medical exam. It looks like the victim was killed by a knife wound to the neck. There were also rope burns at two different angles on his wrists and ankles, suggesting that he was tied up somewhere else before being moved to the car.”
    â€œWhy do that?”
    â€œTo make it more difficult to identify the body. To torture him—assuming he wasn’t dead. To test out new shocks.” Frank laughs at his own sarcasm. “I don’t know.”
    She likes the sound of that laugh in her apartment but tries not to enjoy it.
    â€œWell,” she adds, “did you find anything else?”
    â€œInside the car there were two sets of fingerprints—Catherine’s and the victim’s—keys in the ignition, an empty bag of pretzels, three cigarette butts in the ashtray, and a tape of classical music in the deck.”
    â€œWhat tape?”
    â€œYou always were a fan.” He looks down at his notes. “It was a Glenn Gould recording of Bach’s Goldberg Variations. ”
    â€œWas it playing when they found the car?”
    â€œI don’t know. There wasn’t any mention of it.”
    â€œThe car was twenty feet from the water.” She leans forward with upturned palms. “Why not dump it and get rid of the evidence altogether? Someone wanted the body and that tape to be found. Why?”
    â€œAnd who? As far as the police are concerned, Catherine has moved from victim to prime suspect.”
    â€œMaybe she’s neither.”
    They sit quietly for a moment, watching the light in the room change with the dying sun.
    Frank sits up and moves to the edge of the couch. “I’ve been thinking about something you said the other day. The person she had dinner with in Salt Lake. What if he’s the one who was under the car?”
    â€œIt’s possible. Do you think Catherine killed him?”
    â€œCan’t rule it out. I’m going to get in touch with the police in Utah about any recent missing persons. Maybe someone’s looking for him.” He stands and adjusts his jacket slightly. Samantha rises at the same time, then turns on the light. It feels too bright in the small