The Brain Parasites, Part Two

THURSDAY, OCT. 18

I was half-asleep on the sofa with SpongeBob SquarePants on the TV when Rachel came out of the bedroom at 8 a.m.

“What the hell? What are you doing out here? Why are you watching this?” She switched the TV off.

            “Uhh . . .” I sat up, hoping I’d only had a bad dream. Then I checked my phone. “Oh, hell.”

            “What?” She punched me.

I showed Rachel the image. “This is what happened last night.”

            “Oh.” She frowned. “Who’s that?”

            “I don’t know.” I stretched, my muscles aching from sleeping on the couch. “I need coffee.” Yesterday it had just been a weird sleepwalking case. Now . . .

            I staggered into the kitchen as Rachel scooped some coffee into the machine. “I want you to meet the boyfriend. Russell. Check him out.” Rachel can sometimes sense when something’s off about a person—in a paranormal way. It’s helpful in my work.

            “Okay.” She folded her arms. “What about you?”

            “Coffee. Cereal. Call my client, eventually. Maybe a nap.”

            “No, you idiot.” She slugged my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

            I shrugged. “I’m just sleep deprived. Bed would be good. I mean—”

Rachel smirked. “Later, Romeo.”

            After breakfast and a shower, I searched the local news. An Oak Park newspaper website had a short item about an old woman found dead in a park by a nanny taking two kids out for an early-morning romp in the local park. No name, which meant probably the family hadn’t been formally notified yet. No clear cause of death. More importantly (to me), nothing about a sleep-deprived private detective wandering through the park and taking pictures.

            At 10 a.m. I called Jolene Beckham. “This is going to sound weird. And disturbing.”

            She took a deep breath. “Is Russell having an affair at that sleep clinic?”

            I almost laughed. “No. I followed Russell to a park near your house, and—”

            “Oh, my God.” She gasped. “Is that the park where that woman was found dead? It was online this morning.”

            “I don’t think Russell had anything to do with it. He was one of about a dozen people, and from what I could see, all they did was sit around silently. Then they all got up and left, except for . . . that one woman.”

            “Oh, my god.” Another deep breath. “What do I do?”

            “I still don’t know exactly what’s going on.” I meant it to be reassuring. It probably wasn’t. “I’d like to bring an associate over to your house to meet him. Her name’s Rachel, she works with me, and she’s . . . somewhat psychic.”

            “Psychic.” She sighed. “Okay. I guess. Tonight? I’ll call you.”

            “Sounds good.” In the meantime, I was going to look into that clinic.

           

“Reid Sleep Clinic, how may I help you?”

            I gulped some coffee. My sixth cup. “Hi, my name’s Tom Jurgen. I’ve been having some real trouble sleeping. For months. I ran across your website. Can you help me?”

            “Of course we can, Mr. Jurgen. I’m Terri.” Her voice was quiet and soothing. “What’s the problem?”

            “I can’t uh, sleep.” I leaned down, looking at my notes. “It’s been going on for two months. My girlfriend is driving me crazy. I mean, she’s hot and everything—” I looked at the picture of Rachel that I kept on top of my desk. “But I just can’t drop off. I wake up every morning like I’m halfway dead.”

            “Of course.” Terri’s fingers tapped. “Can you come in at 3:30 today?”

            “Uh, sure.”

            So at 3:30 I was filling out forms at the clinic. It was a typical doctor’s office, with outdated magazines on the tables and photos of clouds and mountains on the walls, and a TV tuned to CNN.

I listed my occupation as “consultant,” which is sort of true, but otherwise I completely lied about my insomnia. Months of not being able to sleep more than two or three hours a night, except for the occasional weekend when I slept 15 hours and still woke up feeling like hell. It was interfering with my work (check), my relationships (check) my driving (check), and my sex drive. Okay, I left that one blank.

Then I turned the form over to Terri. “Here.”

“Take a seat.” Terri was a short brunette in her twenties, with a tight sweater. She had a cute smile and silver ring through her nostril. “The doctor will see you shortly.”

I found the only People magazine without one of the Kardashians on the cover and flipped through the pages. The only thing that made sense was the horoscope: “This is your month to shine! Enjoy the light, seek new challenges, and embrace fresh opportunities! Watch out for negative forces, and remember to care for your soul.” Unfortunately, it was three months old. And someone had already filled out most of the crossword puzzle.

            The inner door opened 10 minutes later. “Mr. Jurgen?”

Dr. Ashton Reid looked a little older and heavier than his picture, but he was soft-spoken and professional. He asked lots of questions about my sleeping patterns. I tried to stick close to what I’d written down, and I yawned a lot.

Reid checked my blood pressure, listened to my heart, and shined a small flashlight into my eyes. “Are you under a lot of stress at work?”

“Some.” Vampires, killer sexbots, more vampires . . . but I couldn’t tell him that. “I’m a consultant. It gets . . . weird.”

“Well.” Reid perched on a stool. “Two or three months without sleep isn’t healthy. I’m always reluctant to prescribe sleep medications—they can be addictive, even the new ones lately. What I’d suggest for now is a solid sleep mask for your eyes, noise-canceling headphones, and a strict bedtime routine. Also, a hormone called melatonin. It’s over the counter.” He wrote a note on a prescription pad.

            “My girlfriend thinks I should get one of those white noise machines,” I said. “Are they any good?”

            “They can be effective.” Reid nodded. “I’d want you to do a sleep study before recommending one. You’d spend the night here, and we’d observe your brain activity and sleeping patterns. But I don’t think we need to schedule that right now.”

            He gave me some brochures and a log to fill out for a week—what I ate and drank, what time I went to bed and got up, how I slept in general each night, and other stuff. Then we shook hands. “Call us if this doesn’t help. We all deserve a good night’s sleep.”

Reid led me down the hall on my way back to the waiting room. We passed Noah Usher—I recognized him from the website. “Hey, Ash? Tonight’s patient canceled, so the sleep clinic’s free tonight. In case you’ve got anyone who wants to come in.” Usher glanced at me.

            “I’ve got to get going.” I shook Reid’s hand again. “I’ll see you.”

            I scheduled a follow-up appointment for next week with Terri and checked my messages in the parking lot. Jolene wanted me to come over at 8:30 tomorrow night.

FRIDAY. OCT. 19

Russell looked at me and then at Rachel. And then at me again. “Who are you guys?”

            We sat on the sofa in their living room. Jolene served us coffee and cookies. Then she played some of the videos. Russell climbing out of bed, putting jeans and a dirty T-shirt, then stumbling out of the room without shoes. Then staggering back hours later, dropping his jeans on the floor, throwing his shirt across the room, and collapsing on the bed next to Jolene.

            “That was the first one.” Jolene paused it. “Two weeks ago.”

            “Why didn’t you—wait, there’s more?” Russell glared at her. At me and Rachel. “What’s going on here?”

            It was time for me to take over. “Russell, I followed you two nights ago. You rode your bike to the Reid Sleep Clinic. Here.” I showed him the pictures and my iPhone video.

            He blinked. “That could be anyone. You can’t see my face.”

            “But that’s your bike.” Jolene pointed. “And that’s the clinic.”

            “Okay, okay.” Russell lifted his hands. “That’s weird, but . . .”  

            “I was worried!” Jolene’s voice cracked. “First you weren’t sleeping, then you started passing out every night, then the sleepwalking . . .”

            “Okay, okay!” He put an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry. I just . . . I’m sleeping better. I’m still tired in the morning, but I figured I was just going down to the kitchen for snacks.”

            “So there’s this.” I played the video I’d taken of him sitting down with the other the naked people in the park. And then the last picture I’d taken of the dead woman.

            Russell blinked. “Who is that? She looks like . . .” He pushed my phone away. “I think I saw her. In the waiting room, once or twice.”

            She’d been identified in the newspapers. “Her name was Dale Kirkpatrick, and she was found dead inside the park near your house last night. Cause of death was a cerebral hemorrhage. You were there.”

Russell shook his head. “I don’t remember anything like that.”

“We’re trying to figure out what’s going on.” I looked at Rachel. “Your turn.”

She stood up. “Look, Russell, I’m sort of, uh, psychic? I can’t see the future, I can’t move things around, and I can’t read your mind. But I can . . . sense things. I just need to, uh, touch your head. If that’s okay.”

Russell sat up straight, as if he wanted to jump up and run. Then he checked Rachel out. Damn it, did she have to wear those tight jeans?

Russell glanced at Jolene. She nodded. He sat back and smiled. “Okay.”

Rachel grimaced. “Just relax. It’ll only take a moment.”

She bent forward and placed a hand on his forehead. I watched his hands in case he got frisky. What? I’m a guy, and Rachel’s my girlfriend, and Russell had that thick, half-shaven chin thing going for him. Plus, broad, muscular shoulders.

Jolene watched them too, her fingers twitching. Our eyes met. I shrugged.

Then Rachel jumped back as if she’d gotten an electric shock. “Yow.”

“What?” I stood up and grabbed her arm. “Are you okay?”

She pulled free. “I’m fine. It’s just . . .”

Russell rubbed his temples and stared up at Rachel. “What?”

“There’s something—inside. I don’t know what, but it feels . . . alien.” She ran a hand through her red hair. “I don’t mean from another planet, just—not natural.”

“Oh my god.” Jolene put an arm around Russell’s arms.

“Think it would show up on an X-ray?” I asked.

Rachel shrugged. “No idea. Probably wouldn’t hurt.” She sat down, shaking a little.

“Tomorrow morning.” Jolene patted his arm. “We’ll call the hospital.”

“What are we going to tell them?” Russell gazed at Rachel, then wrenched his eyes away to question me. “That some private detective’s psychic girlfriend thinks there’s an alien in my head?”

“Or . . . headaches?” It was just a suggestion.

He glared. Then he actually laughed. “Yeah. Okay. That sounds better.”

“In the meantime, can we borrow your white noise machine?”

“Take the damn thing.” He sat back. “It cost too much anyway.”

“It’ll be all right.” Jolene hugged him. “Somehow.”

SATURDAY, OCT. 20

The Nyx was a black cube, just like the models I’d found online. Russell had kept the instruction manual, but it didn’t say anything about transmitting subconscious commands to a sleeping subject. Just how to program it for deep sleep and deeper sleep. Darn.

            I unscrewed the rear plate and peered inside, but I might as well have been checking out the guts of Mr. Spock’s science station on Star Trek. Rachel knows a little more about electronics than I do, at least enough to program the DVR, but she’s more on the software side. “Can you take a look at this?”

 It was Saturday morning. We’d slept late, and she was still in a sheer red T-shirt and flip-flops.

            “Huh.” She bent over and poked a finger inside. “I’m pretty sure those are . . .  wires? I think that’s a red one, and that’s a blue one. I’m not a tech goddess.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Are you staring at my butt?”

            “I rely on you for technical advice, psychic powers, and well, you’re my hot girlfriend.” I grinned.  “Do you know anyone who could look at that?”

            “Well, I know a guy named Gary who builds his own computers. We, uh, used to date. Before you. At least before we got serious. Is that going to be a problem?”

            “As long as he keeps his hands to himself.” I squeezed her bottom.

            I expected another punch. Instead Rachel wiggled her butt. “I’ll make the call. Then, maybe . . .”

            My phone buzzed first. It was Jolene Beckham. “We scheduled an X-ray and an MRI for Monday. That’s the earliest they could fit us in. Do you know anything more?”

            “I’ve got someone looking at the sleep machine.” Rachel was already searching her phone for Gary’s number. “I’m going to take a closer look at that sleep clinic.”

“Okay. I’ll keep him in bed. I mean . . .” She giggled. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Say no more.” Please. “I’ll be in touch.”

“Me too.” She hung up.