She squinted at the words as if not quite understanding them, like maybe Bill had unexpectedly spoken some obscure foreign language. “It isn’t right? What’s not right about it? I know I look young, but trust me, I’m over twenty-one, and I know you haven’t seen your twenties in a while. I know you’re no longer married. Are you seeing someone?”
“Well, no, but still. I’m sure your bosses would consider you sleeping with the father of the latest I-90 Killer victim highly inappropriate. I’d hate to be responsible for you facing some sort of disciplinary action.”
The agent began shaking her head, but before she could say a word, Bill continued. “And here’s the other thing. I find you incredibly attractive, Angie, and it’s not like I wouldn’t be interested under different circumstances. I’m really flattered that someone as beautiful and on-the-ball as you would even give a guy like me a second look, but the only thing on my mind right now is Carli. I’d make lousy company tonight or any other night until my little girl comes home. Find my daughter, bring her home, and if you’re still interested in me, then, maybe, we could do this the right way.”
She looked up at him, saying nothing, and her piercing blue eyes seemed to turn frosty and hard. Bill felt a sense of unease, and then she broke his gaze and glanced down at the floor, moving back a half-step, putting some distance between their bodies. “Angela…” he said gently.
“I travel a lot,” she said quietly. “I’ve been working this I-90 Killer case for a long time, seemingly getting nowhere. I just wanted…I don’t know. I just thought maybe we could share some of the burden of pain rather than each shouldering it separately. I—I’m sorry…”
“You don’t have to be sorry. I understand.” Agent Canfield turned and walked back down the short hallway toward the apartment’s front door, saying nothing more, Bill following a step behind. She reached for the door handle, and Bill said, “One question, Angela, you know, since you’re here.”
“Yes?” The coldness seemed to have disappeared from her eyes, and Bill decided he must have imagined it. She was right about one thing: she certainly was under a lot of pressure.
“Be honest with me. What are the chances we’ll find Carli alive? And don’t give me the FBI party line. I want your honest opinion as an investigator.”
Angela said nothing for a moment, and Bill thought she was going to walk out the door without answering. He waited, watching her pulse beat slow and steady under the delicate skin of her neck. Then she spoke. “Everything I told you yesterday was the truth. I believe there is every chance Carli is still alive. And I believe there is every chance we’ll find her. We just need one break. And we’re going to get it.”
Bill nodded and wondered for a moment about what a relationship with this driven young woman would be like, reaching the obvious conclusion in seconds: that he would never find out. Once Carli was located and returned safely to her family—Bill refused to acknowledge any other possibility—Special Agent Angela Canfield would disappear, either continuing her search for the I-90 Killer, or onto another case if they were fortunate enough to catch the crazy sociopath.
One way or the other, she would soon be gone, and Bill would go back to his old life, managing his two hardware stores alone and in anonymity. He smiled at her and she locked eyes with him for a moment, her expression giving away nothing. Then she slipped through the door and was gone.
Bill stood in his kitchen for a long time, thinking about lonely FBI agents and lonely, desperate fathers and especially about lonely, frightened, lost young girls. Then he padded down the hallway and into his bedroom, alone this time, and slid into bed under a light blanket. He was convinced sleep would remain elusive for hours, if not for the remainder of the evening.
But he did fall back to sleep. It took a long time and plenty of tossing and turning, but eventually, sheer exhaustion overtook him, dragging him into an uneasy slumber, where his body was technically asleep but he teetered just below the level of wakeful consciousness. And the dreams returned again, in all their strange, colorful, jangling glory, torturing Bill with near-remembrances and tantalizing flashes of hinted significance.
The vivid sequences, with their too-bright colors and knife-sharp edges, all right angles and disturbing images, were similar to the ones he had endured a couple of nights ago—long, nonspecific nightmares in which he was torn apart, suffering and anguished. The enemy in these remained the same faceless, shadowy nemesis as before.
Interspersed among these dreams were once again shorter visions, the ones he had thought of as “dream-commercials” before. Slow-motion replays of his actual confrontation with the I-90 Killer, snippets of memories from those fateful two or three minutes that he could not get out of his mind.
It was these shorter dreams that caused Bill to bolt awake in bed, sweating and shaking, straining to remember all of the details and yet unable to manage it. There was something of significance hidden among all the distorted images his brain was showing him; something that would make a difference in some way; something that would matter. He had no idea how it would matter, only that it would.
The dreams kept coming, slowly, tortuously. They were like Grade B horror movie zombies, shambling along, stiff-legged, toward some seemingly random destination. Bill would suffer unconsciously as long as he could stand it, until finally his mind would force his body awake. He would sit up in bed, desperately trying to recover the rapidly receding memories of his nightmares, ignoring the pounding headache attacking his temples, trying to glean the nugget of significance he knew was there in the dreams, but unable to do so.