Dreams in the Key of Blue Read online

  Kramer cocked her bald head to one side. “Explain, please.”

  I shrugged. “Most of us experience spontaneous hypnoid states. We continue to function. We don’t break into pieces. The best example is ‘highway hypnosis.’ The mind wanders to pleasant, distant, sensory-rich places, and the mind continues to correctly operate two tons of machinery hurtling through space. We have a wonderful head trip, we don’t crash or take a wrong exit, and when we snap back, we’ve painlessly gobbled up thirty miles of the journey.”

  “What about the exceptions to the theories?” Squires asked.

  “Do you mean someone like Billy Milligan?” I asked, referring to the famous Ohio case from the seventies, the first verdict in U.S. legal history that validated a defendant’s insanity claim based on a diagnosis of multiple personality disorder.

  “Milligan suffered from MPD and was also a human predator,” Kramer said.

  “Aileen Wuornos,” Squires added. “She’s on Florida’s death row, a serial killer who certainly didn’t seem like her mind wandered from the task at hand.”

  “Good examples,” I agreed. “Most female serial killers have been caretakers… nurses, that kind of thing. Or they’ve killed relatives. Some have participated, along with predatory males or other females, in what amounts to a symbiotic, or mutually interdependent, relationship. I hasten to add that I don’t consider someone like Wuornos an exception. She’s a variation on a theme.”

  “No woman on her own has done it all,” Squires observed. “Killed people she knows or is related to, and killed strangers, only because she loves to kill.”

  I hesitated, unsure where Squires was headed. She, like the others, brought eagerness and intensity to a subject that was both frightening and strangely titillating.

  “I don’t know of a case,” I said, nagged by the feeling that I did know of a case but could not recall it. “That doesn’t mean it hasn’t happened.”

  Carol Bundy grew to enjoy the sexually sadistic murders of Sunset Strip prostitutes. Tapes of Carla Homolka’s Canadian killing spree revealed her pleasure at exercising homicidal power. In Texas, Karla Faye Tucker claimed to have experienced orgasm while wielding a pickax at her one victim. All of these women participated with males in their carnage.

  Squires sat up in her seat and leaned forward. “What I’m talking about is a hybrid.”

  “Yeah,” Kramer agreed, “someone so far outside the labels and theories that she defies classification.”

  “What if I were a serial killer?” Squires hypothesized. “What if I killed people I knew, and also killed strangers?”

  “Would that make her unique?” Waylon asked.

  “Say that it’s lots of people that she does away with,” Kramer added.

  Squires nodded. “A father who abandoned me. An abusive stepfather, maybe. The people I don’t know, don’t forget about them. The strangers. I kill them, too.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not? I mean, isn’t that how she would think?” Waylon said. “I mean, it’s not like she would have a conscience.”

  “She, my hybrid, is a woman who kills repeatedly over time because she enjoys it,” Squires continued. “She knows some of the people she kills, like Marie Hilley did, or Velma Barfield, that woman they executed in North Carolina in 1984, but she also kills strangers, and she’s not about to stop until somebody stops her.”

  Barfield murdered five times, administering arsenic to her victims, including her mother. Until Texas lethally injected Karla Faye Tucker, Barfield held the distinction of being the last woman executed in the United States. Audrey Marie Hilley also preferred the cumulative effects of arsenic and nearly succeeded in killing her daughter. Hilley died of a heart attack before the state of Alabama could complete a final tally of her victims and exact its retribution.

  “Off the top of my head, I don’t know,” I said weakly. “You may drive me back to the books.” I was still wrestling with the notion that their hypothetical hybrid existed.

  I ended the day pleased at the promise of an excellent seminar. These young people thought for themselves, and would challenge traditional notions about human behavior and motivation.

  “HOW DID IT GO?” STEVE WELD ASKED AS WE WALKED together to the parking lot.

  “Communications, right?”

  He smiled. “An essential field in a civilized society. If only we were civilized.”

  Weld was a slender man of average height. He was in his early forties, and sported a long gray ponytail and a prematurely white beard. His tie-dye was a Grateful Dead artifact that looked as if he had worn it through a few road trips.

  “The seminar went very well,” I said. “An intelligent group.”

  “The kids here are bright. The setting is beautiful.”

  I followed Weld’s gaze at the Atlantic. With clouds billowing across the sky, and the sea surging in swells, the view was worthy of a Yankee magazine cover. In the foreground, students crossed the oval from one vintage New England building to another.

  “Seems like it should be the perfect place to teach,” Weld said.

  “You have reservations?”

  “Not with the students,” he said, returning his gaze to me. “You just got here. Give it time.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He climbed into an old Subaru. “You will.”

  As Steve Weld drove off, Stuart Gilman stumbled from the administration building and walked over. “One of our more disgruntled faculty members,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  “I suppose he was entertaining you with stories.”

  I did not intend to dive or be shoved into the swamp of college politics and personal squabbles. “Actually, we were discussing how bright the students at Harbor are.”

  He shrugged. “Weld can be a negative influence,” he said. “Your day went well?”

  “Yes,” I told him. “I have an excellent group of students.”

  “Anything you need, let me know,” Gilman said indifferently, slipping into his silver Jaguar.

  Stuart Gilman and his wheels did not fit on the Harbor College campus. I wondered if he had twitched his way out of the corporate boardroom’s good graces and into the make-work position of liaison to the college.

  It was after six P.M. when I left the campus and drove into the village. I planned to do a complete shopping, but for the first few days I could survive on my stops at Downtown Grocery.

  The small general store was dark and dusty, and reeked of dill pickles and fish. Dead flies and wasps decorated the plate glass window’s sill. However, a half-hour drive across the flats and back was out of the question. The village market had the only game in town.

  A plump, middle-aged woman whose name tag identified her as Angie stood behind the counter trimming steaks. When I gathered what I wanted and placed the items at the checkout, she turned, wiping her hands on an already bloody apron.

  “What time do you close?” I asked, intending to make small talk as she tallied my purchases on an adding machine.

  “Twenty minutes ago,” she said.

  There was nothing subtle about the woman’s demeanor. She wanted no part of conversation, and she did not look at me. She completed the transaction, pushed my change across the counter, then grabbed a cleaver and turned to whack at a bloody slab of beef.

  I was only days away from the safety, sanctity, and relative sanity of my retreat at Lake Albert, and already I was remembering why I didn’t like to venture among people in their natural environment, people who were not in leg irons or otherwise restrained behind electrically charged, steel-barred sliding doors. Humans in the wild were ill-humored and uncivil for no apparent reason.

  Shit, they were too damn much like me.

  AS I STEPPED OUT OF DOWNTOWN GROCERY, JAYCIE Waylon greeted me. “I thought I was going to have to rescue you,” she said.

  “From?”

  “Angie. She doesn’t like people from the college.”

  “How would she know I had
anything to do with the college?”

  “This time of year we’re the only strangers in town.”

  Jaycie walked with me to the municipal parking lot. “I can usually get her to crack a smile,” she said. “I vowed that before I graduate I’ll get a real belly laugh out of her.”

  “You may have set yourself up to be disappointed,” I said.

  “I can be very determined.”

  “Are you originally from this area?” I asked.

  “Augusta. Well, I moved there to live with my aunt when I was eight. My Canterbury, New Hampshire.” parents were killed in an automobile accident. We had a little farm in

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “So am I. My parents had great plans for the farm. They saved their money and paid cash for it. I haven’t been back. At first it was because people didn’t think I should. Now it’s just so long ago. You’re originally from Boston, right?”

  “I was a permanent, if not proper, Bostonian, until about seven years ago.”

  “Then you dropped out.”

  “Then I dropped out,” I agreed.

  “How come you don’t talk like Ted Kennedy?” she asked, doing her best imitation of a Boston accent.

  “Both my parents were from Scotland. Until I was in my twenties, I had a wee bit of a brogue.”

  She laughed. “I think you still do.”

  We arrived at my Jeep.

  “MI gave you the house on the hill, right?”

  “My directions tell me to turn left on Atlantic Hill Road.”

  “Make sure you check out the view of the ocean from the bluff.”

  I DROVE UP THE DIRT ROAD TO MY TEMPORARY GIFT A modest, light blue Cape Cod overlooking Ragged Harbor—from, as Stu Gilman had informed me, and Jaycie had confirmed, Martin International.

  I unlocked the house, inspected the interior briefly, then sat in a rocker on the front porch and sipped a bottle of Shipyard Goat Island light ale. Whoever had equipped the place for me was familiar with my personal tastes. I had found a dozen bottles of the brewed treasure waiting for me in the refrigerator.

  I hoisted my legs onto the porch rail, leaned back, and stared into the scrub growth across the road. A battered gray car passed, headed up the hill. The driver, with his ball cap turned backward on his head, waved. I returned the gesture, wondering where he was going. Mine was the only house on the dead-end road.

  At home on Lake Albert, traffic had limited itself to an occasional passing boat, or a four-legged guest on my fenced ten acres. When I quit the business and left Boston, I had retreated into isolation. Only now had I reluctantly reentered the crazy world that I watched grow around me.

  “The kid probably likes scenery,” I muttered, remembering Jaycie’s promise of a panoramic view of the ocean and the outer islands.

  I had been sitting on the porch for fifteen minutes when the light breeze that blew off the water threatened to become a bone-chilling squall. Dark clouds tumbled inland, and a hard rain pelted the maple trees and showered down a scattering of leaves in the shades of late autumn’s dead and dying colors. It was a frigid rain, and the offshore wind gained force.

  “God, that came up fast,” I said as I slammed the door behind me.

  I stacked pieces of beech and maple on the fireplace grate, over the newspaper and kindling that someone from the college maintenance department had thoughtfully left for me. I put a match to the paper and watched it flare, then settle into a crackling collage of colors and warmth.

  The sound of the car returning down the hill distracted me. I turned and saw the old Volvo slow in front of the house, then accelerate and disappear from view.

  “Guess the storm drove you away, too,” I said.

  I popped the cap off another Shipyard, switched on the radio and found a station playing the New England jamming band Bruce, and sat on the edge of the raised hearth. I felt the fire’s heat on my back, sipped my cold brew, and listened to “Dennis the Wolfman,” accompanied by the clatter of rain against the house. I could have remained like that for a long time, but a car pulled into the driveway, followed by a pounding on my door.

  “Might as well live in Manhattan,” I muttered as I opened the door to four guests.

  “We ran from the driveway,” Jaycie Waylon said. “We still got soaked.”

  She handed me a shopping bag.

  “That’s Sara Brenner,” she said, pointing at a smiling young woman whose black hair was as bedraggled as her wool shawl. “She sits behind her hair in class.”

  Sara waved.

  “Kai Lin is nearly dry,” Jaycie said, indicating her second friend, “because she remembers things, like bringing an umbrella when it’s raining. If you examine her closely, you’ll see that she’s also wearing waterproof shoes. Kai Lin had a schedule conflict so she couldn’t sign up for the seminar. And you know Amanda Squires. She’s our thinker and provocateur.”

  “Drag some chairs near the fire,” I said. “I’ll find a few towels.”

  “We’re the unofficial Harbor College welcoming committee,” Sara called.

  Jaycie traipsed after me to the hall closet. “I hope you don’t mind us inviting ourselves over.”

  I glanced at her, thinking how much she reminded me of my daughter Lane as a college student.

  Jaycie held up her hands. “I know. If you minded, you’d say so.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “Besides, after our conversation this afternoon I half expected a home intrusion.”

  We returned to a semicircle of chairs near the fire. The students decorated the hearth with two pairs of saturated tennis shoes, one soggy shawl, and a damp windbreaker.

  Sara pointed at the shopping bag. “Jaycie read somewhere that you liked microbrewed ale, so that’s what we got. The corn chips are just corn chips, but the salsa is amazing.”

  “Why do I sense heartburn in my immediate future?” I asked.

  Kai Lin reached into the bag. “Hot,” she said, holding up one jar, then lifting a second. “Mild.”

  “I’m relieved.”

  “There are some Tums in there, too,” Sara added. “Amanda bought them, but I’m sure she’ll share.”

  “Thinkers are prone to acid indigestion,” Kai Lin said.

  “This is for you,” Amanda said, handing me a narrow white box. “From the unofficial welcoming committee.”

  “This is very kind,” I said, opening the box to reveal a carved ivory letter opener.

  “Oh, it’s scrimshaw,” Jaycie said, peering over my shoulder. “Good choice. Can you explain the etching?”

  I glanced at the shipwreck scene that decorated the bone blade.

  “The story’s a downer,” Amanda said. “I’ll tell you some other time.”

  I examined the delicately etched whalebone. Its fine lines depicted the drama of a whaling ship yawing in windblown seas, its harpooned catch, a sperm whale, harnessed precariously on the starboard. A giant sea serpent, jaws wide, fangs bared, loomed behind the tableau, ready to devour the ship, whale, and crew.

  “This is magnificent work,” I said. “I will want to hear that story sometime.”

  Kai Lin opened chips and salsa, Sara used her pocketknife’s bottle opener to snap the caps off four ales, and Jaycie rubbed her wet hair with a bath towel.

  “Doesn’t the college frown on this sort of fraternizing among faculty and students?” I asked.

  “Harbor College is a liberal institution,” Sara said with a smile.

  “Which means,” Kai Lin added, “they don’t care what anybody does so long as they pay their tuition.”

  “We wanted a different course offering,” Sara said. “We also wanted somebody from outside the college to teach it.”

  “We nearly got wrecked driving up here,” Jaycie said. “Some idiot coming down the hill wanted the whole road.”

  I thought of the young man with the backward ball cap in the small gray car.

  “Townies don’t like Harbor girls,” Sara said.

  “Let’s not get
into that,” Kai Lin said. “Whose idea was the seminar?”

  “‘Gender and Violence’ seems pretty radical even for Harbor,” Sara agreed, and added, “Dr. Frank’s beer has the smiley face.”

  “The board member from MI who gives all that money to the college,” Amanda said. “What’s her name? She like owns the company or something.”

  “Melanie Martin,” Jaycie said.

  “Didn’t you have an internship there?” Kai Lin asked.

  “Still do, but I’ve never met Ms. Martin.”

  I added a log to the fire, then returned to the circle, where my ale grinned an orange grin at me. I grimaced.

  “I know he likes the ale,” Jaycie said. “Must be he doesn’t like smiley faces.”

  “You’ve got it,” I said. “They’re from the soporific seventies, symptomatic of the entire decade.”

  I peeled off the minimalist design and stuck it on the hearth.

  “What interests you besides murder?” Jaycie asked.

  “Well, I’m a fishing fanatic,” I said, sipping ale. “I enjoy reading a good mystery.”

  “I love mysteries,” Sara said. “Who do you think writes the best mysteries today?”

  “No one,” I said with a laugh. “My favorites are the Nero Wolfe stories by Rex Stout.”

  “Wolfe’s the one who weighs a seventh of a ton and wears yellow silk pajamas,” Sara said. “I read some of those.”

  “That’s nearly three hundred pounds,” Kai Lin offered.

  “Good math,” Jaycie said. “What else do you like, Dr. Frank?”

  “Music.”

  “Classical?” Sara asked.

  “He was listening to Bruce when we came in,” Jaycie said.

  For an hour the conversation bounced from their questions about my interests, to their interests, to life, politics, and the universe. Sara was firm in her belief that President Clinton did not suffer from a sexual compulsion. “He’s like any other guy,” she said.

  Kai Lin found Newt Gingrich far more psychologically interesting than Bill Clinton. “He’s a totally different species,” she insisted. “He says he resigned for the good of the nation and the good of his party. Don’t get me started or you’ll have to wash out my mouth with soap.”