Dreams and Terrors: A case from the files
of Shalimar Bang.
Tuesday
2 a.m.
Raymond Munro couldn’t recall his last good sleep. Maybe
last month, when he and his wife had visited his mother-in-law a few days. Even
then, the couple had stayed in his wife’s old room, and they were expected to
sleep soundly in a twin bed. It might have been a fine bed for a young woman
not yet aged seventeen years, but for two middle-aged adults whose ages and
waist measurements nearly matched, it was a launchpad for the next day’s
crankiness. Still, Raymond thought he’d gotten better rest then than he got now
in his king-sized bed in his own house.
He snorted, a sound of resignation and decision. He left his
wife asleep in bed, picked up the poker from the living room fireplace and
carried it next door, where he broke open the French doors at the back of the
house. Inside, a black and white rat terrier rushed Munro while barking
furiously. Munro swung the poker, silencing the dog.
Upstairs, James McIntire was stirring from sleep when Munro
entered the bedroom and bludgeoned his neighbor to death.
That would be the last time McIntire thoughtlessly left his
dog barking outside at night for two hours, disturbing Munro’s sleep.
2:07 a.m.
Brenda Bristow, housewife, had complained to her
friend-from-grade-school-days Alice every time they met for their once-a-month
daiquiris that she was “terminally tired.” Maybe not every time. But certainly
each time they met at Bernet’s Bistro during the past eighteen months, the
words had come out of her mouth. Usually after she ordered her second drink.
The last three months, she hadn’t smiled as she said it.
This night, Brenda had lain in bed, eyes open, looking at
nothing but the darkness between her face and the ceiling. She rose from the
bed, picked out pantyhose from the dirty clothes hamper to tie her sleeping
husband to the bed. She doused him with rubbing alcohol and set the bed afire.
No more would he come home late smelling of beer and
cigarettes.
2:18 a.m.
Vince Shaw had been thinking about purchasing a new TV. Flat
screen, “the highest def I can get,” he’d told his co-worker Sam more than once
as they’d driven from one plumbing job to the next. But he hadn’t committed
yet. He still had a big-tube TV that weighed more than his two college-age
sons. But that Vince hadn’t yet shopped and bought his new TV really didn’t
matter tonight. William Sandford shot and killed his neighbor, Vince Shaw, who
had sat dozing while wrestling flickered on the TV screen. Sanford
9:37 a.m.
Shalimar Bang had purchased Alcatraz Island a few years back
and set up her headquarters there. Other parts of the island prison had been
converted into residences and posh shopping and dining establishments. She
maintained a portion of the old prison still as a museum.
Shalimar gazed out the wall-sized window of her office,
watched the boats shuttling visitors over the Bay waters to and from the
island. Morning light winked on the fretted surface of the water. Shalimar had
dimmed the lights in her office, but as she stood by the window, highlights
appeared on the many dark chestnut curls in her hair, touched the small
chevron-shaped scar on her forehead, traced the graceful lines of her nose
(which she sometimes frowned at in the mirror, thinking it too long) and lips
and chin, the arched brows over her delicately curved eyes. She would, at that
moment, have made a happy portraitist of any painter or photographer who might have
cajoled her into posing, but she habitually shied away from having her likeness
captured. To some people, she sometimes seemed obsessive about her desire to
cling to whatever shreds of privacy she could control. But Shalimar felt far
too much of her life already had been made public, starting with the murder of
her parents years ago.
Much of her professional life was purposefully fashioned for
public consumption--for example, purchasing a historically significant site
like Alcatraz could hardly escape the notice of media newshounds--because doing
so promoted her business concerns. But she had learned that keeping the
personal and the private separate was an important strategy in staying both
profitable and sane in a world in which any shopper, pedestrian, and school
pupil could--thanks to mobile technology--serve as a conduit to broadcasting
one’s every movement and utterance to the entire global population.
A small chime sounded: Beamish contacting her over the
intercom.
“Yes?” When Shalimar spoke, the system automatically
analyzed and recognized her voice, then opened the connection.
“Good morning.” Beamish’s voice came across as cheerful.
This was his first contact with his boss today. From seven o’clock that
morning--as most mornings went--Shalimar had reviewed proposals and requests
for projects and cases, updates on existing files, and scanned news feeds from
local and international sources.
“News?” Shalimar asked.
“No progress on scheduling a visit with Fred MacIsaac,”
Beamish replied. “The mayor is concerned about the amount of boat traffic to
the island and the resulting increase in pollution--air, noise, and visual--and
wants to meet. Roxanne is getting the new communications systems up and
running--”
Shalimar interrupted: “Which phase has she reached?”
“Stage Two diagnostics.”
“Thanks.”
“And the police chief wants to assign a dedicated liaison
from her office.”
“Why?”
“In her words, ‘to monitor your activities and to assess the
levels of potential endangerment and opportunities for escalations of emergency
alarms to crises alerts requiring management and strategic responses.’ End
quote.”
Shalimar rested her forehead against the window. Although
she felt nothing from the pressure on the chevron scar, the V turned white as
it flattened against the glass. “That was clear and concise.” She watched the
boats move on the flashing water, their passengers apparently merrily
contributing to a multiplicity of pollutions. “See if you can get any more
details from the chief’s office. Put the mayor off for another week . . . maybe
tip off the legal team, sounds like it may be their tangle in a few weeks.”
“Gotcha.”
“Send me MacIsaac’s address. I may make a cold call.”
