Night Terrors by Dennis Palumbo Page A

Alcott.
    It was coming from the last door on the right. The harsh, penetrating sound of raw terror. Choked, gasping screams. The keening of someone in intolerable anguish.
    â€œJesus Christ!” Heart pounding, I ran to the door. Grabbed the doorknob. It was locked.
    Alcott was at my heels. I whirled, only to be met by his curiously flat stare.
    â€œWho’s in there, Alcott? Who the hell is it?”
    â€œAgent Lyle Barnes, Doc. Your new patient.”
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Chapter Nine
    I slammed my shoulder against the thin wooden door, twice, before it buckled. Swung free on its hinges.
    I quickly stepped inside, Alcott right behind.
    The room was small, with cinder block walls and heavy drapes cloaking the windows. Matching lamps glowed faintly on either side of the king-sized bed. The smell of damp wool, old cigarette smoke. Sweat.
    On the floor near the bed, a young man in long sleeves and a tie was on his back, winded. Flustered. Struggling to get up on his elbows.
    But it was the man on the bed who drew my gaze. In a t-shirt, trousers, and black socks, he sat upright, kicking free from a tangle of rumpled sheets. He was tallish, with long ropey arms and thin, sweat-matted hair. Wide, haunted eyes stared out at the room as though into the maw of hell.
    It was his screams we’d heard, now silenced. Replaced by desperate, labored gasps. Mouth chewing empty air.
    No one spoke for half a minute. Until the younger man managed to scramble up from the floor. Turning to Alcott with a sheepish look.
    â€œSorry, sir. He started yelling and crying out in his sleep, and when I went to calm him—”
    The man in the bed interrupted him. “I woke up, and shoved Agent Stoltz off me. Like a wild man.”
    Breathing more calmly now, he shook his head. “It was my fault entirely, Neal. Stoltz was just trying to help.”
    The man ran his fingers through his thatch of hair.
    â€œMan, I fucking hate this shit.”
    Agent Stoltz warily approached the man’s bedside.
    â€œOn the other hand, sir, you did get some sleep. I checked the clock. About three hours.”
    Alcott spoke up then. “How long had Agent Barnes been awake before that, Stoltz?”
    â€œAlmost thirty hours. Frankly, sir, I don’t know how the hell he does it.”
    Lyle Barnes, stirring in the bedcovers that cocooned him, gave a short, hard laugh.
    â€œThat’s easy. Gallons of coffee, and a stubborn streak a mile long.” His voice went flat. “Besides, anything’s better than what comes when I’m asleep. What I see …”
    He averted his eyes. I could tell that the admission—of his fear, of his unquestioned dread—was not easy for him. It suggested weakness, vulnerability.
    Not the qualities, I guessed, that most people usually associated with him. As he gathered himself, straightening his hair and clothes, I got a better picture of the veteran agent his colleagues at the FBI knew. Saw the intelligence in his face. Its intimation of relentless focus.
    Lyle Barnes looked to be in his mid-sixties, lean and spare. As if his body were as no-nonsense as his personality. At least under normal circumstances.
    I hadn’t said a word since entering the room. But suddenly Barnes glanced over at me, perhaps registering me for the first time.
    â€œAnd who are you? Another suit from Quantico sent up to see how the crazy guy is doing?”
    Alcott spoke again. “This is Dr. Daniel Rinaldi, Lyle. The trauma specialist they told you about.”
    I took a measured step closer to Barnes.
    â€œThat’s right. Though it doesn’t take a psychologist to see how the crazy guy is doing. Not too goddam well, looks like.”
    Barnes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then grunted suspiciously at Alcott.
    â€œ This is the guy that’s supposed to help me? Keep me from losing my shit every time I shut my eyes?”
    â€œThe director has a lot of faith in the doc here.”