Dream a Little Dream Of Me Pt. 02b

Dream a little dream of me Part 2b

Author's note: Parts 2 are each direct endings of Part 1. Each Part 2 is independent of all other Parts 2.

*********

A dog barked somewhere in the distance.

The doorbell rang. Followed by a knock.

My sleep-deprived brain was agitated by this nonsense. Who the hell comes by the house at this hour--

I opened the door.

My mind balked.

Chills spread across my body.

In the dim porch light stood a figure in a black hoodie.

**********

Twenty years later.

**********

It wasn't claustrophobia.

There was a word for it, but that wasn't it.

If they had not taken away his phone, he could have looked it up. He knew it wasn't claustrophobia.

He had once been sent for an MRI after he tore his rotator cuff. The slow trip into the constricted space had been like going into the grave, or what he imagined such a confinement would be like. Terrifying at first, but the nice woman had told him if he yelled she would hit a button and slide him out. And she would know for sure he was a pussy. Okay, he didn't really think that. Panic was an unmanageable reaction. It overwhelmed the rational mind. Otherwise brave people freaked their first time in the machine. He fought, panting and sweating, until it lessened enough to bear.

This feeling he had no word for was slower. More subtle. More dreadful.

What it was, was fear of being in a locked space. Didn't matter that the space was as expansive as a good-sized living room or that it was brightly lit by those industrial strength overly white lights that make you think you are in a warehouse.

Which is a good analogy, now that he thought about it. He made a note on his allowed materials. One yellow legal pad, lined. One pencil, not too sharp.

"Mr. Gale? Alan Gale?"

He nodded. Who the hell else could he be? This was the fourth station to scan his ID and snap his picture. He did not doubt there was software cranking away right now busily matching the parameters of the real time image of his face to the state's database.

What if it didn't match? None of the uniformed personnel carried sidearms. They did have thick black cylinders clipped to their belts. He knew these were batons, extended to a couple of feet long with a flick of the wrist, and terminated with an ominous heavy bulb. He didn't want to be that visitor whose face did not pass muster.

His escort, an assistant warden who carried himself more like a bookkeeper than a prison guard, led him down a bluish-white corridor which terminated in a solid metal door. It opened invisibly with a creak that cried out for grease. They stepped inside, and the door closed behind them just as invisibly and with the same haunting creak, but this time it slammed shut with an echoing clang that made him jump. But not, he noted, his escort.

Was the unrelenting noise part of the punishment? He had never been inside a prison. The echoing cacophony could have been intentional or it could have merely been the result of decades of delayed maintenance. Surely a modern prison might be designed and built so that the doors shut quietly. Part of him knew this cruelty and others would be baked into the blueprint. Such was the creeping cynicism of being a reporter.

The room was antiseptic, white as a hospital. Three walls were devoid of any mark or attachment. The last wall had five windows divided by partitions extending into the room. Between the partitions ran narrow shelves, a wooden chair scooted underneath each. On the partition hung a telephone. An old-fashioned telephone, with a black plastic hand piece on a metal hook. This phone, however, did not have a dial. It only connected to one place -- the matching phone on the other side of the thick smudged glass.

The assistant warden pointed him toward the middle window. The reporter dragged the chair out, put his pad and pencil on the shelf, and sat. His escort took a seat at the far window.

**********

The email from the Senior Assistant Managing Editor had been about as short as her title was long.

From: Lynne Renzo

To: Alan Gale

Re: Cavanaugh interview

Alan,

Your visit to Pine Bluff is set for Tuesday at one. Check in at the administration building.

Good luck,

Lynne

Renzo had mentioned the assignment to him two weeks ago, but he originally thought it unlikely to ever happen. He had transferred to the news desk from the business section only three months before, so him being assigned this death row interview meant nobody senior to him wanted it.

As he was the rookie, it meant nobody wanted it.

He prepared for the interview anyway. He was the new guy and needed to outwork the veterans to dodge the next round of layoffs.

Yes, he was a reporter. A dinosaur hammering out content destined to be printed onto dead trees. More likely these days was the transmission of his words at the speed of electricity to be rendered on flat screens of all sorts and then scraped, stolen, and served up to eyeballs who had not contributed a cent toward his salary.

Reduction of headcount was a constant concern. The reporters and management parried worry with tired resignation and black humor. The Grim Reaper was on the loose at the end of every quarter.

**********

This sterile interview room smelled like soap and pine with a little mint in the background. Most of the men who had sat on the other side of those innocuous windows were now dead. Not laid off polish your resume dead, but dead dead. Their brain turned off by the first injection, their breathing stopped by the second, and their heartbeat ended by the third.

Pine Bluff sounded like the name of a nice place to live and raise your kids.

Matthew Cavanaugh, a 26-year-old white man with a college degree in mechanical engineering from a top school, with a stable job, with -- by all accounts, up to a certain point -- a loving wife in a happy marriage, with no criminal record, with no hint of mental illness in his past, had come home one day twenty years ago, taken his gun, and executed his wife and her lover.

Tomorrow, the state was going to get payback on Matt with three injections.

Oddly, at least to Alan's mind, the needles used to kill Cavanaugh would be carefully sterilized.

A door opened on the other side of the windows and a man wearing a loud orange jumpsuit walked calmly to the chair opposite Alan. He sat and picked up the handset and peered through the glass with a complete lack of expression.

Matt Cavanaugh, Alan thought, was an unremarkable man. Medium height, thin but not emaciated. He had close cropped brown hair and a round pleasant face. The guy you passed on the sidewalk all day, who served you a hot dog, who came to fix your copier. The guy who took a 9 mm Smith & Wesson and blew his wife's brains out. Then put a round through her terrified lover's forehead.

Alan remembered the philosopher Hannah Arendt's phrase "the banality of evil", and decided she was describing the man on the other side of the glass.

He picked up his handset.

"Good morning, Mr. Cavanaugh," Alan said. He immediately regretted wishing a man condemned to die a good morning. He forged on. "My name is Alan Gale. Thank you for seeing me today." He again kicked himself - for introducing the concept of time into a conversation with a man quickly running out of it.

Alan took a deep breath. It had been easier in his imagination.

"Good morning, Mr. Gale," Cavanaugh said in a surprisingly soft voice. "Thank you for coming."

Alan instinctively moved closer to the glass to hear him better before figuring out the voice came to him through the little speaker in his hand. Cavanaugh didn't seem to notice his unease or take any offense at being told how good the morning was.

Alan looked down at his pad, pencil in hand. "I have a lot of questions for you, if you don't mind."

"Not at all. How old are you, Mr. Gale?"

Alan glanced up. "Uh... I am twenty-six."

Cavanaugh nodded.

Alan had a flash of realization and scribbled some quick figures. Cavanaugh's age minus twenty years since the--

He was the same age Matt Cavanaugh had been when he twice pulled the trigger.

"Are you married, Mr. Gale?"

Alan was friends with many on the force. Beat cops, sergeants, detectives. The detectives had their ancient and immutable rules of thumb. One of these was they never let the suspect ask the questions.

He was not a detective, and Cavanaugh was not a suspect. Not anymore. But still the questions put him off a bit.

"Yes, married for four years."

"I am not going to even ask if you love your wife. I can see it on your face. You greet her with a kiss every morning and go to sleep with a kiss. And in between... kisses."

"Yes, I think that pretty much describes us. Why?"

Cavanaugh leaned forward and rested his elbows on the shelf. "Because I am going to tell you a story nobody else in the world knows. Maybe you can understand it."

Alan felt a drop of sweat coalesce between his shoulder blades and start its trickle down his back. Matt Cavanaugh had given no interviews before, during, or after his trial. He told his story to the police, and that story was, yes, he had shot them both. Nothing else mattered. Nothing could excuse what he had done.

He had confessed fully. There was no doubt.

When the police arrived at the scene, they found Matthew sitting on the floor in a pool of his wife's blood. He was cradling her body and crying hysterically. The responding officers initially thought an unknown perpetrator had killed the two and Matthew had found them dead.

He started to confess while his wife's shattered skull was still leaking onto his lap. All the forensic evidence confirmed his story. The gun was his. There were no other fingerprints in the house but those of Matthew, Christine, and the third victim, one Shayne Linwood. Most of the prints belonged to the wife, and many older prints belonged to Matthew. Only a few belonged to Mr. Linwood, a bartender at a pub some two miles from the murder scene, who had apparently never been in the Cavanaugh house before his ill-timed first visit. Investigators failed to find any previous contact between Linwood and Mrs. Cavanaugh.

It was just Linwood's unlucky day.

The serum blood alcohol showed both victims were quite intoxicated. Cavanaugh had been stone sober.

The case was a slam dunk, open and shut, a cakewalk. The DA had who, what, where, and how. Why was so obvious it did not warrant consideration. The prosecution had everything they needed to convict Matthew Cavanaugh, whose lawyer put on a defense crippled by the fact that his client admitted to everything.

The case sold many papers. Front page for several days, then occasionally below the fold during the trial. Everyman loses it. Crime of passion. But in the end there was no hook to elevate the story to be more than what it appeared -- a mundane tale of jealousy and rage. Sadly unremarkable, sadly too common.

Cavanaugh's case whirled through the system, through all the mandatory appeals. It faded from the news. Nobody cared about it anymore except for the surviving relatives of the deceased.

And Matthew Cavanaugh had never talked about what really happened in the six months between his disappearance from his home and his reappearance on the day of the crime.

Now he was seemingly willing to tell the story to him, Alan thought. Pulitzer Prize shit. The Peabody-- He had to stop leaping ahead. Focus. This was going to be a grind. Plus, he would have to protect this story so another bastard on the news staff didn't try and poach it.

"Go ahead," he said into the handset.

Cavanaugh glanced at the nearest guard, then back at Alan.

"Imagine," he said in a quiet voice that made Alan think of his father reading If You Give a Mouse a Cookie to him night after night. "Imagine your wife wakes up at 5 am every morning in the middle of a loud convulsive orgasm. And you had nothing to do with it."

Alan blanched. He felt it and felt ashamed of his lack of self-control. He nodded. Continue.

Cavanaugh told him how his wife Christine started having erotic dreams of a man -- she professed not to know him -- who appeared most nights and had sex with her, ejaculated into her.

"At first I was turned on. Those mornings I woke up to her hot, wet, and ready to go," he said.

Then he found out the imaginary lover had a name. That bothered him.

Then his wife started calling out her lover's name in her throes. That gutted him.

"I withdrew. I started sleeping in another room. One day I just left."

Alan made a note. The police had interviewed a young woman who witnessed him leave. She had been looking for the house she was supposed to clean in preparation for it being put on the market when she rang the doorbell of the Cavanaugh house. So his date of departure, at least, was confirmed.

Cavanaugh was staring into the distance. "Over a dream, I left her. It was just a dream." He returned his attention to Alan. "I have thought about putting it on my tombstone."

"Sorry, what was that?"

"It was just a dream," Cavanaugh repeated.

Alan waited, but the topic was complete.

"Your car was found in an Amtrak parking lot," Alan offered as a way back to the narrative.

Cavanaugh shrugged. "I left my phone in it and took the next train that came along. I took a lot of money out of my bank. When I got to Florida, I dropped my wallet in a dumpster. I kept the cash."

"You were untraceable."

"That was my crappy plan. Disappear so well Chris would not be able to find me and convince me to come back. Because she could and she would. I was never able to deny my wife anything."

Neither spoke for several minutes.

"I greeted her with a kiss every morning and went to sleep with a kiss. And in between... kisses," Cavanaugh said.

Alan closed his eyes for a second. "Were you in Florida the whole time?"

"No. I hitchhiked around down there until I got bored, then I drifted west. I worked day jobs to supplement my stash, stayed in the kind of motels that reminded me of--" He waved his free hand at their undecorated environment. "Talked to people, walked a lot. Saw the Grand Canyon at last. Ate, shit, slept."

"Why did you return?"

"I thought I might have an epiphany. Or a vision. Maybe a dream... that would be either fitting or ironic, I don't know. No, I headed home because of a simple graph."

Alan thought he had misheard the man. "Excuse me... did you say a graph?" Then he remembered the man was an engineer -- of course he saw the world in a graph.

"Yes." Cavanaugh drew with a forefinger horizontally across empty air. "Up here is the level of love I had for Chris. Have for Chris. 99.99 percent of maximum." He then lowered his finger and made a wavy motion. "And down here is all the bullshit static that interferes with our ability to love. All the brain chemistry, all the hormones, all the psychological noise. Stable people are stable because they have developed ways -- ways they are not even aware of -- to suppress the static."

"So her dreams...." Alan said.

Cavanaugh regarded the younger man for a minute. "You get it. When she started dreaming and calling her lover, my static rocketed upwards. I lost my focus on what was important. I ran."

Alan nodded, scribbling. "And after six months on the road?"

"I realized the static was greatly diminished. I got used to the memories. They scarred over. Simple as that. When the static level fell below the love line, I realized it was just a dream after all. And I headed home."

If Matt Cavanaugh had arrived home one day before, maybe even one or two hours before, maybe one day later, he might still be happily married. He and his wife might be driving their children off to college today. But he had arrived at just the wrong time.

"My keys still fit the lock. Her car wasn't there -- I assumed she was at work. I didn't know she had traded in the old one. I heard noises from upstairs, so I went to my gun vault and took out my pistol. I crept up the stairs and threw the door to the bedroom open. I saw her riding this guy. The static exploded in my head. I saw her fucking the man in the dream. The dream. It had come to life. My mind refused to accept it."

"And I pulled the trigger."

Long silence. The fans overhead whirred.

"I read something once that should be tattooed on every man's chest. A guy who jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge and survived said he realized on his way down all the problems in his life were fixable -- except this one."

"The instant the slug left the barrel I knew I could have repaired everything."

Alan swallowed hard. "So you didn't know what you were doing."

The condemned man smiled. "I didn't. But I did. That's why there is tomorrow."

"And Mr. Linwood?"

Cavanaugh spat. "Motherfucker deserved to die. Fucking a married woman. Fucking my wife."

Alan tapped his pencil on one knee. A psychiatrist might have used some of this story to present Cavanaugh in a more sympathetic light -- well, maybe a less unsympathetic one. But Cavanaugh had apparently not offered the story. The only story he allowed was that he did it and he was willing to pay the price.

The prisoner offered no more information, so Alan broke the long pause and began to work his way through a list of questions he had been adding to since first hearing about the case. They were not particularly insightful, he realized about halfway. The answers contributed nothing to a deeper understanding of the man or of the crime. He was just wasting pencil lead.

The excitement of the Pulitzer died away to nothing, then fell deeper and deeper until he was squeezed empty. Depressed and hollow. It was suddenly harder for him to fill his lungs.

There was one window to the outside in this room. He could see the light fading. He could see no trees or birds. No grass. Just the metal grid and the fading day.

He had only one more question.

"Last wish?"

That caught Cavanaugh by surprise. He blew out a breath while he thought.

"Last wish? I wish there is a Heaven and a Hell. I wish as I am falling into Hell I am allowed to pass by Heaven and the cloud Christine is sitting on. Just so I could see her one last time before I burn."

"But she was cheating on you," Alan pointed out.

Cavanaugh gave him such a glare the reporter was grateful for the thick glass window.

"When she fell off him, I saw he had just an average penis. He wasn't the hung lover of her dreams. It came to me then she was just lonely. I had deserted her without a word for six months. Could she have been faithful to me for that long? Sure. Would I blame her for drinking too much and bringing a warm body home for some human contact?"

Alan sat still during the long silence.

"She was on the floor. I got down and held her. I told her I was sorry. I told her I loved her."

"I told her she would be okay."

Cavanaugh stared at the floor for a time.

"They want to punish me? I have been punished all along."

Alan was confused by the tense. Have been punished? The execution was tomorrow.

Cavanaugh saw his confusion.

"Not... that," the man said. "It was... it is...." He hesitated, his face aged beyond his years and yet guileless as a child.

"I have not dreamed of her. Not once in these twenty stinking years."

Something in Cavanaugh triggered, and Alan jerked back as the other man hammered on the glass.

"SHE WAS IN MY DREAMS ALL THE TIME BEFORE! NOW I CAN'T SEE HER--"

A guard ran toward Cavanaugh, his hand on his baton. Alan jumped up.

Cavanaugh sobbed. As the guard ripped the handset from him, the doomed man cried, "Why? Why?"

Another guard appeared and the two officers restrained the prisoner.

"WHERE IS SHE?" Cavanaugh screamed, as though Alan was personally responsible.

Then he was gone. The room was quiet.