Sleep Tight

Chapter 10

After spending all day and into the evening investigating the Canary Falls kidnapping, Gillian returned to her apartment in Dinkytown, but she couldn't sleep. As she lay in bed, the events of the day kept replaying in her mind, especially the interview with the missing girl's parents. How did Mary do it? she wondered. Deal directly with the victim's families like that? Did she have trouble sleeping? Was she awake right now?

Gillian's reflections were disturbed by the sound of someone knocking on her door. She pressed the button on her digital alarm clock, and the numbers glowed green: 12:25 a.m.

The knocking continued.

A soft, rhythmic sound.

Wearing a gray BCA T-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms, she went downstairs and peeked through the living room blinds to see Gavin Hitchcock's car parked next to the curb in front of the duplex.

The knocking continued. The sound was so repetitive and monotonous that it could have been a loop. The style of delivery had Gavin Hitchcock's signature all over it. It was just like him to focus his entire concentration on one thing while blocking out everything else.

She turned the dead bolt and opened the door so the chain caught.

Gavin was a shadowy form standing on her porch.

"What are you doing here?" she whispered.

"Let me in." He sounded desperate. "I have to talk to you."

"It's late."

"Please. Let me in."

She'd always had a soft spot for Gavin, mainly because she knew how tough his life had been and what a struggle it continued to be.

"What's wrong?" she asked over the security chain. Most people were afraid of him, but she wasn't.

"I-I've been having… bad dreams."

The words came reluctantly, like the confession of a frightened child who knew he wasn't supposed to wake his parents.

Her resolve weakened. She closed the door, unlatched the chain, and opened the door. Gavin burst in.

"Don't turn on the light!" he said as she reached for the wall switch.

Instead, she crossed the room and opened the window blinds. "How's that?" Light from the street pooled inside.

He pulled a book of matches from the deep pocket of his army jacket and lit the candles on the coffee table, then tossed the matchbook down and collapsed into the sofa.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head.

Gillian had grown up knowing who Gavin Hitchcock was. Everybody knew who he was. Every school had a Gavin Hitchcock. He was the kid nobody wanted to sit near. The kid who always had a runny nose. Every time there was a lice outbreak, all eyes turned to Gavin. Gillian had felt sorry for him from a distance, and secretly she'd thought he was kind of cute, that he would actually be good-looking if somebody took the time to clean him up. They didn't have any classes together-he'd been lumped in with the slow students at the beginning of his educational journey. Gavin would have remained someone she passed in the hallway, someone she saw on the playground, if she hadn't come to his rescue one day when they were both in junior high.

She'd been walking home the long way, the scenic way, taking a path over the stone bridge in Tandem Park when she heard a commotion underneath. She leaned over the side to see a group of older kids picking on Gavin, shoving him around, trying to steal the ragged coat he was wearing. On the ground was a tattered blanket, junk food wrappers, and remnants of a campfire, and she wondered if Gavin had been sleeping there.

Her moral senses were outraged, and without any thought she jumped into the battle, screaming and fighting like a wild animal. She was no match for five bullies, but the idiocy of her attack took them by surprise. They knew that what they were doing was wrong, and to be confronted by a scrawny girl made them feel ashamed. They stomped on the jacket, kicked up some dirt, and then ran away, shoving at one another as they did, laughing and acting tough so nobody would think a girl had scared them off.

Ever since then Gavin had looked upon her with awe and hero worship. She used to subject him to her reading obsession of the moment, from Blake to Burroughs to Rimbaud-which he'd suffered with stoicism and good nature.

She dived into her role as protector, caring for Gavin with the fervor of a big sister. Maybe he filled a need in Gillian, replacing the space vacated by Mary.

Unfortunately, Gavin hadn't seen her as strictly sister material.

Soon after Gavin's release from prison, Gillian discovered he'd spent his days there looking forward to getting out and marrying her. When she tried to explain, he refused to understand. She'd had no recourse but to cut herself off from him completely.

Yet she still worried about him. Her rejection of him went so much against her nature that she had trouble accepting her decision. But what else could she do if any time she spent with him gave him false hope? And now, here he was again, a wounded creature she couldn't turn away.

She sat down in the ottoman across from him, tucking her feet under her. "What kind of dreams have you been having?"

He chewed on his thumb while staring at a candle flame. "I keep dreamin' about girls."

Her heart beat a little quicker. "Girls? What do you mean?"

He continued to chew on himself. "About doin' things to them."

"What kind of things?" Gillian asked with sinking despair.

"I can't tell you, but it's bad. It's really bad."

Gillian pressed a hand to her mouth.

"It seems so real," he whispered. He looked up at her. The flame was reflected in his tear-filled eyes. "It seems so real."

Had his release and return to society brought back what had happened years ago? Were the recent homicides preying on his mind? "Are you still seeing a psychiatrist?"

"You can help me more than any stupid shrink." He rubbed his face. "I'm so fucking tired, Gillian," he said quietly. "So fucking tired."

What should she do? Tell somebody? But they were dreams. Just dreams. Gavin was already under suspicion. She'd seen his name on the suspect list. If she said anything, it might be enough to have him thrown in jail. She couldn't do that. Gavin hadn't killed those girls. ¦ The words had become her mantra. Did she believe them, or only want to believe them?

"A doctor could give you pills to help you sleep," she told him.

"I have to be able to wake up! I have to be able to wake up when the dreams come!"

"Shhh. Okay, okay."

"I wish things could be like they used to be." He fell back into the couch, his clenched fists on his legs. "When we were kids."

"Things can't ever be that way again. Not for us. Not for anybody."

"But wouldn't it be nice?" He gave her a pleading look. "If we could go back? Don't you ever wish you could turn back the clock?"

She thought of the horrible childhood he'd had, the poverty, the neglect. My God-he'd developed epilepsy due to head trauma caused by beatings from his alcoholic father. He'd finally found a bit of happiness when the court handed him over to his grandmother, but he'd come home one day to find her dead. After that, he was shoved from one foster home to another. What did it say about his current life if he wanted to return to that?

"You have to stop looking back," she told him. "You have to look forward now."

"I've tried, but there's nothing there." He shook his head in discouragement. "Just this dark hole, this pit waiting to swallow me. I want to go back to the time when you were my friend. I know you don't want to marry me. I've come to terms with that. I don't know why I ever thought you would. Sometimes I get these ideas. Games I play in my head. After a while, I begin to believe them. I know we won't get married. But I want you to be my friend again. My sister."

She wished she could tell him she would always be there for him, but she didn't want to hurt him any more than he'd been hurt already. Regardless of what he said, she was afraid that any kind of encouragement might get him going again, might lead to more delusional ideas.

His head fell forward. He caught himself, then straightened. Poor thing. He was exhausted.

She got up. "Gavin, come on." He couldn't stay there. "You have to go home." She pulled him to his feet and pushed him toward the door. Once there, he paused and turned. He reached for her, grasping her gently by one wrist.

"I love you."

The words hung between them.

She felt a little twist inside. She'd only wanted to help him. Instead, she'd ended up hurting him. "Don't say that."

"Why? I'm just telling you the truth. There's nothing wrong with the truth. My grandmother always said the truth will give you wings."

He let her go.

She watched him as he trudged toward his car, a solitary figure. When he was gone, she closed the door and blew out the candles. Then she went upstairs and sat on the edge of the bed, staring into the darkness.

It wasn't love-it was devotion, she argued with herself. Gavin Hitchcock was devoted to her. He'd been devoted to her ever since that day she'd rescued him from the bullies. She thought about how different things would be right now if they'd never met. If she hadn't taken the long way home on that particular day. Gavin had unwittingly played a pivotal role in their lives. It was strange, how one seemingly innocent connection could do so much damage. How one person, by his very existence, had forged the destinies of so many people.

Gillian had adored her sister. They'd been inseparable until Fiona Portman had come along. Then it was good-bye, Gillian. As the months stretched into a year, then two, Gillian's resentment toward Fiona grew. She hated her. She hated the way she laughed and tossed her hair around. She hated the way Fiona would give Gillian those sly, secretive looks that said she knew she'd come between sisters and was proud of it.

Sometimes Fiona would stay over. Whenever that happened, Gillian knew she was in for a night of torture and misery. Fiona would tell her scary stories, then slip into her room after the lights were out and make scratching noises under the bed, saying she was the hatchet man. As Gillian grew older, she distanced herself more and more from Fiona and Mary. She made her own friends. She had her navel pierced and got a couple of tattoos. She wore a lot of makeup and dressed in black.

During that time, she concentrated on giving Gavin a makeover. She helped him with his clothes and hair. She coached him. Pretty soon he was standing tall, looking people in the eye. At the mall, girls ogled him, giggling and flirting outrageously. For probably the first time in his miserable life, Gavin seemed happy.

Together he and Gillian would crash parties where nobody knew them. Girls tripped over one another trying to get to him first. He was "so cute" and "so cool."

One night they went to a party where kids were drinking and smoking pot. Fiona was there, stoned out of her mind. She spotted Gavin. When she hit on him, Gillian announced it was time to leave.

But Gavin didn't want to go. For the first time since they'd known each other, he refused to do what Gillian said. He stayed with Fiona, and probably made out with her in the upstairs bedroom. Gillian couldn't take it. She caught a bus and went home.

At school two days later, Gavin saw Fiona in the hallway and went up to her, his head high, his stride confident. She was standing with her clique, Mary included in the small, exalted group. Fiona brushed him off. He stood there smiling and talking to her, and the bitch just brushed him off. Acting as if he were invisible, she walked away.

Gavin's shoulders slumped. His head dropped.

Gillian wanted to attack Fiona the way she'd attacked the boys under the bridge, but this was Gavin's battle. She'd warned him about her, and he hadn't listened.

To her credit, Mary didn't follow Fiona. She stayed and apologized to Gavin. She made excuses for her friend. "I don't think she heard you," Mary told Gavin.

"Come on," Gillian said, knowing an argument was pointless. She took Gavin's arm. "Let's go."

Gavin looked at her from under his bowed brow and hanging hair, and his eyes were full of such bleak pain that for the first time in her life Gillian wanted to kill somebody. Fiona Portman.

She shared her desire with Gavin. The bleakness left his eyes, and that afternoon they discussed how it could be done. Together, they fantasized about kidnapping her. They would torture her. They would kill her.

Gillian forgot all about the incident until two months later when Fiona was dead and Gavin was arrested for the crime.

Gillian never knew if Gavin killed her or not, but if he had, Gillian knew she was to blame for planting the idea in his head.

It had been'bullshit, kid stuff, not anything she ever thought would be carried out. But she was young. She hadn't understood about Gavin, about how he sometimes had a problem separating fantasy from reality. As a child, he'd developed the skill to protect himself. That armor lent him the power to be able to move through the world without being crushed by it.

She pressed a fist against her mouth to muffle the sob that threatened to escape. She'd fucked up his life-that's what she'd done. All along, she'd convinced herself that once he got out of prison, everything would be fine. Well, now he was out and he wasn't fine. He was a million miles from fine.

She hadn't only fucked up Gavin's life; she'd also fucked up Mary's. If Fiona had lived, Mary would eventually have seen her for what she was: a spoiled little bitch. Now she'd been relegated to sainthood, and Mary-Mary, who used to be funny, who used to laugh and dance and act as crazy as a person could act-was now on some holy mission to right the wrongs of the world. She'd so immersed herself in darkness that she could no longer see a pinpoint of light. She was no longer Mary Cantrell. She hadn't been Mary Cantrell since the day she'd stumbled over Fiona's dead body.