Night Terrors by Dennis Palumbo Page B

Alcott tried on a confident smile. “I worked with him myself, last summer. He didn’t embarrass himself.”
    Barnes squinted at me. “Hell, that’s high praise from Agent Alcott. The brown-nosing prick rarely likes anyone.”
    Standing beside him, I could see Alcott flush with anger out of the corner of my eye. But he kept his cool.
    Meanwhile, Lyle Barnes had climbed out of the bed. He stood at the side table, sifting through a collection of over-the-counter medicine bottles until he found some Excedrin. Without looking up, he waved an impatient hand at his young caretaker.
    â€œOkay, Stoltz, you’re off the clock. Go get some shuteye, or a drink. Go get laid, I don’t care. Apparently, me and Dr. Rinaldi have an appointment.”
    With a quick nod, Stoltz took a jacket from the back of a chair and slipped it on. This was followed by a huge black overcoat, a fuzzy scarf and tan gloves. Finally, he grabbed up a box of Ricola Throat Lozenges from the room’s sole dresser bureau.
    â€œYou all set, Stoltz?” Alcott’s voice was a growl. “We wouldn’t want you to get the sniffles.”
    Shame-faced, Stoltz quickly buttoned up and strode from the room. As he scurried out, he bumped into the door, barely hanging from its frame, sending it swinging.
    Barnes straightened, swallowed two Excedrin tablets with water from a tumbler.
    â€œThat goes for you, too, Neal. Last thing I need is for anything I say to the doc to get back to the director.”
    Alcott stiffened momentarily, about to respond. I cut him off.
    â€œAgent Barnes is right. If he’s to be my patient, then he’s entitled to the confidentiality afforded anyone I treat. Now I know you tend to play fast and loose with that concept, but—”
    He raised a hand in mock surrender.
    â€œHey, I get it. None of my business, anyway. I was just supposed to put you two together in a room. Which I did. Far as I’m concerned, it’s Miller Time.”
    Barnes regarded him wryly. “Thanks, Agent Alcott. Though it occurs to me that Dr. Rinaldi and I might be more comfortable in a different room. One with a door, maybe?”
    I smiled. “To be fair, that’s on me. Sometimes I just go on impulse.”
    â€œNot a bad trait,” Barnes replied. “When appropriate.”
    The retired profiler and I exchanged careful looks. I realized our relationship—such as it was, or would turn out to be—had already begun.
    Oblivious, Alcott looked at both of us with a pained expression. It was clear he wanted to be anywhere but here.
    â€œC’mon, let’s use one of the other empty rooms. We bought out the whole floor, anyway. Might as well make use of it.”
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Chapter Ten
    Lyle Barnes stood in front of the oval wall mirror, straightening his tie.
    â€œI guess you’ve already figured out why the director reached out to you.”
    â€œYou’re suffering from night terrors, and he wants me to treat you. To help you manage the symptoms.”
    Barnes peered curiously at his own reflection in the dusty mirror. Squared his shoulders. Then turned back into the room, facing me.
    I was on the corner sofa, in a room that was an exact replica of the one we’d just left. Though Barnes and I were the only occupants, I knew there was an agent stationed outside the door. Probably Green or Zarnicki.
    In his smartly-done tie and pressed suit jacket, Lyle Barnes looked every inch the veteran FBI agent. Freshly showered and shaved, hair carefully combed. He came over to sit opposite me on the corner of the still-made bed.
    â€œWhat do you know about night terrors?” I asked.
    â€œProbably as much as you, Dr. Rinaldi. If not more.”
    I didn’t doubt it. FBI profilers usually held at least a master’s in psychology, with the added benefit of years of practical experience. Particularly with the more extreme forms of pathology, expressed primarily in