Strangers

sleeping in closets and behind the furnace. But tonight it would not be deceived: it meant to have him; he could hide no longer; the end had come.
        From the darkness, someone or something shouted his name - "Dom!" - and he realized that someone had been calling to him for the last minute or two, maybe longer. "Dominick, answer me!"
        Another shuddering crash. The brittle crack of splintering wood.
        Huddling in the corner, Dom finally woke completely. The clammy creature had not been real. A figment of a dream. He recognized the voice calling to him as that of Parker Faine. Even as the residual hysteria of his nightmare subsided, another crash, the loudest of all, generated a chain-reaction of destruction, a crackling-sliding-scraping-toppling-crashingbooming-clattering-rattling that culminated with the opening of a door and the intrusion of light into the darkness.
        Dom squinted against the glare and saw Parker silhouetted like some hulking troll in the bedroom door, the hall light behind him. The door had been locked, and Parker had forced it, had thrown himself against it until the lock disintegrated.
        "Dominick, buddy, are you okay?"
        The door had been barricaded as well, which had made entrance even more difficult. Dom saw that, in his sleep, he had evidently moved the dresser in front of the door, had stacked the two nightstands atop the dresser, and had put the bedroom armchair in front of it. Those overturned pieces of furniture now lay on the floor in a jumbled heap.
        Parker stepped into the room. "Buddy? Are you all right?
        You were screaming. I could hear you clear out in the driveway."
        "A dream."
        "Must've been a lulu."
        "I can't remember what it was," Dom said, remaining on the floor, in the corner, too exhausted and weak-kneed to get up. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Parker. But… what on earth are you doing here?"
        Parker blinked. "Don't you know? You phoned me. Not more than ten minutes ago. You were shouting for help. You said they were here and were going to get you. Then you hung up."
        Dom felt humiliation settle over him as if it were a painful burn.
        "Ah, so you did make the call in your sleep," the painter said. "Thought as much. You sounded… not yourself. Maybe I should've called the police, but I suspected this sleepwalking thing. Knew you wouldn't want it brought into the open in front of strangers, a bunch of cops."
        "I'm out of control, Parker. Something's… snapping inside me."
        "That's enough of that crap. I won't listen to any more of it."
        Dom felt like a helpless child. He was afraid he was going to cry. He bit his tongue, squeezed back the tears, cleared his throat, and said, "What time is it?"
        "A few minutes after four. Middle of the night." Parker looked toward the window and frowned.
        Following the other man's gaze, Dom saw that the draperies were drawn tight shut and that the highboy had been moved in front of the window, barring entrance by that route. He had been busy in his sleep.
        "Oh, Christ," Parker said, moving to the bed, where he stopped, a vivid expression of shock on his broad face. "This is no good, my friend. This is no good at all."
        Holding on to the wall, Dom rose shakily to his feet to see what Parker was talking about, but when he saw it, he wished he had remained on the floor. An arsenal was laid out on the bed: the.22 automatic that he usually kept in his nightstand; a butcher's knife; two other meat knives; a cleaver; a hammer; the ax he used for splitting firewood and which, the last he remembered, had been in the garage.
        Parker said, "What were you expecting - a Soviet invasion? What frightens you so?"
        "I don't know. Something in my nightmares."
        "So what do you dream about?"
        "I don't know."
        "You can't remember any of it?"
        "No." He shivered again, violently.
        Parker came to him, put a hand on his shoulder. "You better take a shower, get dressed. I'll start rustling up some breakfast. Okay? Then I… I think we'd better pay a visit to that doctor of yours as soon as his office opens. I think he's got to take a second look at you."
        Dominick nodded.
        It was December 2.

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    TWO
        

    December 2-December 16

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    1
        

    Boston, Massachusetts
        
        Viola Fletcher, a