Down To Sleep Read online

  Quinn dug his cigarettes from his shirt pocket and shook one forward, free of the others. “Anyone mind if I smoke?”

  The woman shook her head carefully, as if fearful a more rapid motion might muss her short blonde hair.

  “I don’t do tobacco.” The young man grinned and produced a small plastic bag from his army jacket pocket. “But I have been known to partake of some righteous doob-age now and then.”

  The blonde stared at him, eyes blinking rapidly, her face twisted into a frown that threatened to ruin her perfectly applied makeup. “Is that marijuana?”

  “Why yes, Mrs. Cleaver, it is.” The man leaned against the tiled wall, slid into a sitting position on the floor and opened the baggy. He glanced at Quinn, then the woman. “So…you and Ward up for getting stoned with the Beav, or what?”

  The woman blushed, tossed her magazine into a large designer handbag and stood up. She straightened her white blouse and then the hem of her navy blue skirt, neither of which appeared to need straightening. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to powder my nose.”

  She pulled the handle on her suitcase and walked across the lobby, her heels clicking against the tiled floor, her suitcase-on-wheels in tow.

  “Am I already smoking?” the young man smiled. “Or did the bitch just bring her suitcase with her to the shitter?”

  Quinn lit a cigarette, began to pace and pretended to ignore him.

  “Hey, chief,” he said in a quiet, conspiratorial tone, “ain’t she awful uptight for a chick so young? Shit, she can’t be more than what—twenty-nine, thirty?—what’s with the Nancy Reagan look? I ain’t seen nobody her age that looked like that since they threw me outta a Young Republicans rally.”

  Quinn drew an angry drag on his cigarette. “Don’t be an asshole, kid. Just mind your own business.”

  “I’m Binky. They called me that since I was a baby cause I was like almost in elementary school and I was still sucking on a pacifier. You know, a binky? Anyways, just call me Bink.” He licked the paper and finished rolling the joint, never taking his rodent-like eyes from Quinn’s face. “I didn’t catch your name, chief.”

  “Quinn. Howard Quinn.”

  Binky slid the joint behind his ear and struggled to his feet with a muffled grunt. “Me, I’m a musician.” He pointed to a battered guitar case and an old duffel bag a few feet away. “I’m in a band and I smoke lotsa weed…know why? So just in case I ever get the feeling I might get a haircut like my grandpa and pick me up a pair of Dockers and a neat little button-down oxford shirt like you got on, I’ll be too fucking stoned to make it to the mall.” Binky poked the joint into the corner of his mouth and smiled.

  “Did I give you some indication that I wanted to have a conversation with you?” Quinn stepped closer, staring at him. “If you need to smoke that shit, do it outside.”

  Binky plucked the joint from his mouth, slid it back behind his ear and held his hands up like the victim of a robbery. “Take it easy there, Clint Eastwood. Don’t go spazzin’ on me now. Just havin’ some fun and trying to pass the time is all.”

  Quinn gave a subtle nod and felt his body relax a bit as Binky wandered back over to his guitar case.

  “So what are you doing out this way?”

  Quinn returned to the window and stared out at the darkness for a while. “My mother had respiratory problems and the doctors said she’d do better in a climate like they have in Arizona, so about five years ago I moved her out here.”

  “Cool.” Binky stuffed his hands into the deep pockets of his jacket. “So you came for a visit?”

  “I came for a funeral.”

  An awkward silence fell, reminding them both just how deathly quiet the terminal was without the sound of their voices. “Jesus, man,” Binky finally said. “I’m sorry about that. Really, I am.”

  “Thanks,” Quinn answered softly. “I could only afford a one-way airline ticket, had to take the bus home. Now I’m stuck in this dump.”

  Binky laughed lightly and let the wall support him. “I only play in the band nights. During the day I work at a record store. Been there a year so I had some vacation time, figured what the hell, I’ll go see the desert. Shoulda stayed in New York where I know my way around.”

  “Christ,” Quinn sighed and checked his watch. “When the other bus dropped us off the driver said the new one would be along in about twenty minutes. It’s been over an hour now, where the hell is he?”

  Binky jerked a thumb in the direction of the restrooms. “I’m beginning to wonder what’s taking Nancy so long in there.”

  “Maybe we should see if she’s all right.”

  “She must be dropping a deuce. Probably tough to go with that board up her ass.”

  * * *

  Nearly fifteen minutes later there was still no sign of their bus, and the woman had yet to return from the restroom. Quinn had watched the highway the entire time and not even a car had passed. The desert surrounding them remained unnaturally quiet, a faint speckling of stars in the otherwise black sky providing the only exterior light. His eyes next scanned the terminal: a small ticket desk on a riser against the back wall, the cluster of plastic chairs in the center of the lobby area, two vending machines, and a lone narrow hallway which lead to the bathrooms. A series of ancient, filthy fluorescent lights along the low ceiling, most of which had burned out, cast the small area in a dingy, artificial haze.

  “Tell you what,” Quinn said. “You keep an eye out for the bus and I’m going to go make sure she’s all right.”

  Binky, who was now sitting on the floor quietly strumming his guitar, nodded absently.

  Quinn strolled across the lobby and slipped into the dimly lit hallway next to the ticket desk, following the narrow passage until he’d found a pair of doors. He stopped in front of the one marked: Women, and listened, then after a moment, knocked lightly. “Miss?”

  Silence.

  He knocked again, a bit harder this time. “Miss, you all right in there?” Quinn pushed the door, opening it just a crack, and caught a glimpse of a single sink against one wall and two toilet stalls against the other. “Hello?”

  * * *

  Binky looked up, saw Quinn standing motionless a few feet away, arms at his side and his face as white as chalk. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “You need to come with me.” Quinn spoke in a quiet, distant voice; eyes vacant, hands shaking. “Y-You…you need to…”

  Binky scrambled to his feet. “What is it?”

  Quinn swallowed so hard it was audible. “Just come on.”

  After producing a switchblade from his jacket pocket and releasing the blade into place with a loud snap, Binky followed him down the hallway. Once they’d reached the restrooms Quinn drew a slow, deliberate breath, and held open the door, revealing why he was acting as if he’d gone into shock. Binky leaned further into the room, eyes darting from one corner to the next, his surprise and fear unable to prevent his mouth from dropping open. “Holy fucking shit.”

  Blood was spattered from one end of the bathroom to the other. Large wide smears of crimson stained the walls, the floor and the stall doors. A mirror over the sink had been splashed with blood and other bodily fluids and the sink itself was nearly half full of it, the old drain gurgling as it tried to swallow the pool that had formed there.

  Binky forced himself deeper into the room, trying his best to avoid the puddles of blood on the slick tile floor. Quinn followed close behind, watching their backs as Binky hesitantly approached the first stall.

  The door opened with a loud squeak, and Binky saw a trail of blood smudged along the floor to the toilet. Something was in there, had been dragged there by the looks of things, and it wasn’t until he was standing directly above the bowl that he saw what was floating in it.

  “Oh, God in Heaven.” He staggered back, catching his balance on the wall just before he doubled over and vomited onto the floor.

  Quinn had seen it too. The woman’s head, torn free from the rest
of her body, hair matted with water and blood, dead eyes staring up at them, an expression of terror and disbelief still etched across her battered face.

  For several seconds both men stood staring at each other, bodies frozen, minds racing to make some sense of what they had witnessed. Then, in one frantically timed movement, they bolted for the door.

  When they had reached the lobby both men stopped and looked around. They appeared to be alone in the terminal.

  “We have to call the police,” Quinn muttered.

  Binky ran for the ticket desk, jumped the low wooden gate and stepped up onto the riser. As he reached for the phone on the desk he realized a hard plastic cover had been installed over the keypad. “Sonofabitch! They got the thing locked down!”

  Quinn moved quickly to a pay phone near the entrance, snatched the receiver from the base and listened. Digging through his pockets he found a quarter, jammed it into the coin slot and listened for a dial tone. “It’s dead.”

  “What the fuck is going on?” Binky snapped. “What the hell happened to her, we—we didn’t even—there wasn’t even—I didn’t hear a goddamn thing!”

  Quinn was about to try dialing 9-1-1 despite the lack of a dial tone when he thought he heard something seeping through the line. Something distant and just barely audible interspersed with a high-pitched crackling sound. He pressed the phone tight against his ear and strained to listen.

  “You got something?” Binky asked, eyes darting between Quinn and the hallway behind them. “Quinn, you got something?”

  From the static and noise came a single faint voice. Quinn felt his knees buckle, but caught himself before he collapsed, then dropped the phone and backed away, leaving it dangling, slapping the wall, his eyes filling with tears and his hands shaking so violently he had clearly lost all control over them.

  With his switchblade leading the way, Binky hopped down from the riser. “What is it?”

  “I…I…”

  “Quinn, what the fuck, is there somebody on the line or not?”

  Quinn forced his moist eyes to meet Binky’s. “Not anymore.”

  Pushing his way past him, Binky grabbed the phone and pulled it to his ear. Dead silence. Tossing the handset aside he turned back to Quinn. “Did you hear something or not?”

  “I…I’m not sure.” Quinn backed away, his eyes fixed on the hallway now, as if expecting someone or something to emerge from the darkness at any moment. He fumbled his cigarettes from his pocket, but his hands were still trembling with such force the pack fell to the floor. “We have to get the hell out of here.”

  “What could’ve done something like that, Quinn? Wha-what could’ve done something like that to her so quietly?”

  “S-Some kind of animal maybe?”

  “An animal?” Binky stomped closer, giving a quick look in the direction of the hallway every few seconds. “Yeah, one of them fucking bathroom coyotes maybe.”

  “You’re making jokes?” Quinn felt his hands clench into fists. “That woman is dead, I—I’ve got her blood all over me and, and—you’re making fucking jokes?”

  “We obviously ain’t as alone as we thought.” Binky moved closer, turning his body for a better view of the hallway. “And there’s something else…where the hell’s the rest of her?”

  “That’s why I was thinking an animal,” Quinn mumbled. “Maybe it dragged her off somewhere and—”

  “What are you, on crack? Asshole, did you hear anything? What animal could do something like that to a human being without making a sound?”

  Quinn stared at him, fighting the tears. “We can’t stay here.”

  Binky motioned to the front windows with his switchblade. “There’s at least fifty miles of desert in either direction before you get to anything that even looks like a town.”

  “Whatever did this is still here, Bink.”

  The young man nodded; his once glazed eyes now as clear and sharp as any Quinn had ever seen. “If we leave we’re gonna be in wide open land. Nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.” He glanced at his watch. “In a few hours it’ll be daylight.”

  “We’ll be dead by then.”

  “Then there’s only one thing we can do.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Find the person who did this.” Binky rapidly blinked a bead of newly formed sweat from his eyelid. “And then kill the motherfucker before he kills us.”

  A burst of humorless laughter escaped Quinn like an uncontrollable cough. “You don’t…we, we don’t even know what the hell we’re dealing with.”

  Binky stared at him, detecting something behind his tear-filled eyes he hadn’t noticed previously. “You heard something on that phone, didn’t you.” It was more statement than question but he wanted an answer anyway. “Didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know what I’m seeing or hearing or…” Quinn leaned back against the wall and ran his hands through his hair as quiet tears became violent gasping sobs.

  “If you don’t answer my question,” Binky said, raising the switchblade, “I’m gonna stick this so far up your ass it’s gonna scratch the back of your fucking throat.”

  Quinn wiped the tears from his face with the back of his hand; his head bowed and eyes fixed on the floor between them. “I thought I heard a voice,” he said softly. “But…but it couldn’t have been, it—”

  “Try me.”

  Quinn’s body bucked as he cried, spittle bubbling at the corners of his mouth mixing with the steady flow of tears. “My…my mother,” he finally managed. “It sounded like my mother.”

  “But you said she was—”

  “I buried her yesterday!” he said, spitting the words. “My mother’s dead!”

  Binky nodded, more as a means of clearing the maelstrom of disjointed thoughts exploding through his mind than a response. “What’d she say?”

  “It wasn’t my mother, she—”

  “I don’t give a shit if it was Barbara-fucking-Walters! What did she say!”

  Quinn stared at him liked a terrified child then seemed to look beyond him at something else entirely. With his bloodshot eyes widening in horror, he raised a shaking hand and pointed to the windows behind them. “That.”

  Binky spun around, half-expecting to see someone standing there, but what he saw was far worse. Reading it again and again, he wandered slowly toward the windows, forcing himself to accept the words written in smeared blood across the large panes of glass as the reality they were and not some hideous flash from some unimaginable nightmare.

  THAT BITCH WAS ONLY THE BEGINNING.

  Sitting on the floor as if posed just beneath the windows was the headless body of the woman, hands folded neatly in her bloody lap and feet crossed at the ankles.

  “Jesus Christ,” Quinn cried, looking around in a blurry-eyed pirouette that nearly caused him to lose his balance. “What the hell do you want? Why are you doing this? Leave us alone! Goddamn you! Goddamn you!”

  Binky turned away from the windows, holding a hand to his mouth for fear he might vomit again while trying desperately to retain some semblance of composure and sanity.

  “Whatever this is,” he said, forcing thoughts he knew to be absurd past his dry lips, “it wasn’t here before we were. If it was, there would’ve been other incidents like this, other murders and people would know about it.”

  “Maybe this is the first time.”

  “Yeah? And what caused it to happen on this night?” Binky shook his head, looked directly into Quinn’s terrified eyes and wondered if his own looked the same. And in studying those eyes he realized something else. Quinn was more than frightened or in shock from circumstances that could only be described as surreal at best, he had a look of unbearable guilt as well. “No,” he continued, chills shivering through his entire body, “whatever we’re dealing with followed us here. It was on that bus with us, and when we got off, it did too. That means one of us has to know something, and since I don’t have clue-fucking-one…that only leaves you. What the hell’s happening
here, Quinn?” The man was ignoring him now; his expression wild as his focus darted from one corner of the terminal to the next, revealing he was on the verge of complete collapse. Binky knew if he were going to get any answers out of him now would be his only chance. “Quinn, I’m not gonna ask you again,” he said, disturbed by the sudden calm in his own voice. “What is happening here?”

  Quinn jerked his head in Binky’s direction, as if he’d only just noticed him there, and between what appeared to be uncontrollable bouts of frenzied, hysterical laughter combined with just as sudden outbursts of tears, he moved a bit closer. “I’m an accountant,” he said, his voice quaking. “I’m also an alcoholic. Two years ago it got so out of control my wife left me, picked up and ran off with another guy. Within a few months I’d lost my job and the drinking just got worse. My mother had moved here a few years before because of her health problems and I…I was evicted from my apartment and I didn’t have anywhere to turn, do you understand? I-I’d been living in a shit-bag motel on the last of my savings so I bought a bus ticket and came here to see her, I…I mean, she was living down here in a house that’s totally paid for and hoarding every fucking dime my father ever made. I only asked for a couple thousand to help get me back on my feet, you know? But she told me I was nothing but a goddamn drunk and I wouldn’t see a penny of her money until the day they lowered her into the ground. My mother, my—I’m her son, her only child and this is the way she treats me?…So I asked if I could stay the night and in the morning I’d be on my way. Saying yes was the second mistake that bitch made.” Quinn stepped closer still. “Once she’d fallen asleep I went into her bedroom and smothered her with her own pillow…I told the EMTs she’d been fine and must’ve just died in her sleep. They never questioned it. A woman in her eighties with health problems? They didn’t give a shit and neither does anybody else. I’m on my way home to get a lawyer to help me settle her affairs and liquidate her assets because it all goes to me.”