Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  chapter twenty-one

  chapter twenty-two

  chapter twenty-three

  chapter twenty-four

  chapter twenty-five

  chapter twenty-six

  chapter twenty-seven

  chapter twenty-eight

  chapter twenty-nine

  chapter thirty

  chapter thirty-one

  chapter thirty-two

  chapter thirty-three

  chapter thirty-four

  chapter thirty-five

  chapter thirty-six

  chapter thirty-seven

  chapter thirty-eight

  chapter thirty-nine

  chapter forty

  chapter forty-one

  chapter forty-two

  chapter forty-three

  chapter forty-four

  chapter forty-five

  chapter forty-six

  chapter forty-seven

  chapter forty-eight

  chapter forty-nine

  Letter to the Reader

  FAREWELL

  To DREAMS

  A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

  CJ Lyons

  PRAISE FOR NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER CJ LYONS' THRILLERS WITH HEART:

  “Everything a great thriller should be—action packed, authentic, and intense.” ~New York Times bestselling author Lee Child

  “A compelling voice in thriller writing…I love how the characters come alive on every page.” ~New York Times bestselling author Jeffery Deaver

  “Top Pick! A fascinating and intense thriller.” ~RT Book Reviews

  “An intense, emotional thriller…(that) climbs to the edge of intensity.” ~National Examiner

  “A perfect blend of romance and suspense. My kind of read.”

  ~New York Times Bestselling author Sandra Brown

  “Highly engaging characters, heart-stopping scenes…one great rollercoaster ride.” ~Bookreporter.com

  “Adrenalin pumping.” ~The Mystery Gazette

  “Riveting.” ~Publishers Weekly

  Lyons “is a master within the genre.” ~Pittsburgh Magazine

  “A great fast-paced read….Not to be missed.” ~Book Addict

  “Characters with beating hearts and three dimensions.” ~Newsday

  “A pulse-pounding adrenalin rush!”

  ~New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

  “…Harrowing, emotional, action-packed and brilliantly realized.”

  ~New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

  “Explodes on the page…I absolutely could not put it down.”

  ~Romance Readers' Connection

  To Toni for sharing your talent as well as sharing my vision.

  FAREWELL

  To DREAMS

  A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

  CJ Lyons

  “The earth is heavy and opaque without dreams.”

  ~ANAÏS NIN

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’m Angela Rossi. I’m thirty-four years old, and this is the story of how I die.

  I’m an ER doctor and victim’s advocate—make that former ER doc—and this is the story of how I live.

  Most of all, it’s a story of redemption.

  I hope.

  Guess it all depends on your point of view…

  <<<>>>

  Even if it’s a rainy Thanksgiving night with the ER’s waiting room overflowing and all of our exam rooms filled, cops and firemen will always get first dibs on our attention. They may have to wait if others are closer to death, but they’re going to get seen and seen fast.

  Here at Cambria City’s Good Samaritan, the only trauma center still standing in this corner of Pennsylvania’s Allegheny Mountains, we know how to treat our friends, and when you work on the front lines in the ER, first responders are more than friends, they’re family.

  So when I grabbed the next chart stacked in front of the overflowing rack and saw a cop’s name there, I was surprised.

  Like most of my colleagues, my job encompasses more than simply working shifts in the emergency department. I’m also medical director of the Cambria Advocacy Center, in charge of forensic evaluations of victims of violence. More than collecting evidence and assisting the police with their investigations, we also provide support and counseling to victims.

  Matthew Ryder’s name had come across my desk as the replacement for the detective who had been working with us. Poor guy had driven off an icy bridge and died. But I hadn’t expected to first meet our new detective as a patient.

  I glanced at the registration time on the chart: 17:02. Ryder had been waiting almost three hours already.

  “Why didn’t you guys tell me there was a police officer waiting?” I asked the clerk at the nurses’ station. “I could have eyeballed him between the MI we sent up to the cath lab and the guy stabbed with the drumstick.” Drumstick Guy had made our night. ERs are like that; our fun begins when yours ends.

  “He didn’t want to bother you. Said he was in no rush.”

  Great. Despite what he said, no cop would take kindly to waiting three hours. Especially not with the ER as crazy as it was tonight. Trust a family holiday to bring out the worst in everyone.

  “I did put him in front of the minor cares, especially when I saw all the blood.” His words were underscored by the wailing of yet another ambulance arriving. My shift ended an hour ago, which meant the ambulance was someone else’s problem, but the least I could do was take care of Ryder—and check out the detective I’d be working closely with starting next week.

  Scanning Ryder’s chart, I wove my way around two patients parked in wheelchairs outside of X-ray and a family member pacing as he talked on a cell phone.

  Amazing what a triage note can tell you about a person. Scalp laceration. Good vitals. Thirty-seven years old, no meds, no allergies, 182 pounds, single. I pulled back the curtain to Ryder’s bed space.

  Instead of lying on the patient bed, Ryder straddled the rolling office chair meant for physicians, watching the next bed space through an opening in the curtain, his back to me.

  “They’re scared,” he said without turning around.

  His voice was pitched low, but had no trouble carrying to me, its intended target. It was that kind of voice. More like a bullet, direct and forceful, than an invitation. His posture was relaxed yet commanding, perfect for a cop or soldier. As if he owned the space, the room, the entire emergency department.

  The area beside him was occupied by a family gathered around an elderly woman, wringing their hands, arguing with each other in English peppered with Hungarian. Back when the Pennsylvania Railroad was in its heyday and the coal mines still producing, Cambria City’s diversity once rivaled Ellis Island’s. We’re still multicultural, but in the current economic plight, the majority of our citizens now speak the same language: welfare.

  Ryder turned and glanced at me. The chart hadn’t mentioned his blue eyes, so blue they couldn’t be ignored. Blood seeped through the towel he pressed casually against the side of his head. Sca
lp lacs are like that, bleed like stink.

  “You should talk with them. Tell them she’ll be all right.” He didn’t give me a chance to argue, seemed to assume we were in agreement and that he was in charge. “I’ll wait.”

  I washed my hands and gloved up, choosing to ignore his presumptive attitude. I’d spent most of my twelve-hour shift helping the Kowaczs: arguing with their HMO, negotiating with my fellow doctors for space, kissing the charge nurse’s butt when the entire clan descended upon us. “She won’t be all right. She’s dying.”

  “Damned undignified way to do it. Can’t you give them some privacy?”

  It was impossible to ignore his stare or the force behind it. If I hadn’t been so exhausted after the long day, I might have given in and let loose my anger at his impertinence. Instead, I broke free from his gaze and yanked the curtain closed.

  “Best I can do for now.” A sudden tremor in my left hand distracted me. Damn it, not again.

  I’d had problems for the past few weeks, on and off, but chalked it up to overwork, stress, and exhaustion. It’d been since before summer that I’d had a full night’s sleep or done more than toss and turn, my limbs restless with the urge to move, move, move. Fatigue I could handle, one of the many skills any ER doc masters. But even a slight tremor could be a problem. A twitch or shake at the wrong moment, say, with your hand holding a scalpel, could be devastating.

  My best friend, Louise Mehta, is a neurologist, so I’d promised myself that if the tremor continued or if things got worse, I’d let her check me out. Clenching my left hand at my side, I willed the spasm away. If I could make it stop, then things weren’t worse and I could continue to ignore my symptoms.

  The tremor wasn’t cooperating. Much like the patient before me. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed so I can examine you?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine here.” He pushed the chair out of reach, preferring a confrontation to an examination. “Why?”

  Now both my hands were fisted at my hips, and it had nothing to do with any tremor. “Why what? Why use the patient exam bed for an examination?”

  “Why is that the best you can do?” His tone wasn’t judgmental. Quite the opposite. As if he genuinely cared about the Kowaczs or my problems. But it had been a hard day, and Ryder was unlucky enough to become my last straw.

  “Because I’m a sadistic, heartless bitch who couldn’t give a shit. Why do you think? Maybe because there are no open beds in the hospital, and even if there were, we have no nurses to staff them, and even if we did, the Kowaczs’ insurance doesn’t cover hospice or end-of-life care.”

  He held my gaze during my tirade, steady as an anvil absorbing hammer blows, finally blinking when I stopped to take a breath. “Feel better now?”

  My sigh turned into a chuckle as my mood lightened. My tremor disappeared as well. See? Nothing to worry about. “Yes, I do. I’ll feel even better if you tell me what happened and let me examine you.”

  “It’s stupid, really.” He removed the towel to reveal a two-centimeter gash above his temple. His flannel shirt and the T-shirt beneath it were splattered with blood. “You know when you’re microwaving those frozen dinners and they say remove to stir halfway? I left the door to the microwave open and hit my head on the corner when I went to put the dinner back in.”

  “Did you burn yourself or black out?” I explored the laceration. Superficial, a few staples would close it nicely.

  “No.”

  “It’s Thanksgiving, and you were home alone having a frozen dinner?” I poured Betadine over his wound, releasing the sour scent of iodine into the small space.

  “Now who’s wasting time with questions that have nothing to do with medicine?”

  “Just checking your mental status, seeing if you have any psych problems.” Despite my exhaustion, I enjoyed the banter. He was easy to talk to—a plus for a Sex Crimes detective. Interesting that he hadn’t played the “policeman” card. I was relieved to see my fingers completely steady as they guided the hair-thin, 27-gauge needle along the edges of his wound, infiltrating it with lidocaine.

  Before he could answer, the curtain flipped open, its cheerful rattling a sharp counterpoint to the chorus of coughing coming from the hallway beyond it.

  “Angie, we need to talk.”

  If Ryder’s voice was one of quiet command, my ex’s was gentle persuasion, smooth and warm enough to make you turn as if searching for sunlight to bask in. It was Jacob’s strength both in and out of court, and the one thing about him I could seldom resist.

  “I’m a little busy.” I glanced up at Jacob, then immediately forced my gaze away, knowing what he wanted. Despite being divorced for three—no, four—years, we’re still close and usually fall together again around the holidays. Two lonely people who share a past and know how to comfort each other.

  He stepped into the room, the curtain whishing shut behind him, blocking out the chaos of the ER. Tall, lean, with a mop of curly dark hair and a gaunt, narrow face, Jacob radiates intensity. He makes you want to listen to him, look at him, agree with him. A snake charmer, his cohorts at the DA’s office call him. I concentrated on filling my irrigation syringe, as if the simple four-second task required all my attention.

  “Your mother sent me to bring you.”

  That got my attention. It isn’t often that Jacob lies—although, for a rabbi’s son, he can do it surprisingly well. Learned how in law school. When he does lie, it’s never self-serving. This time it was easy to see whom he was protecting. And it wasn’t me. My ex-husband is closer to my family than I’ll ever be. To tell the truth, he’s closer than I ever was—at least not since I was twelve and my father died.

  Killed. In a car crash. My fault.

  My dad, Angelo… I’m like him in every way. Same dark, Italian looks, same incessant fidgeting, unable to sit without tapping a song out with my fingers or toes, unable to walk anywhere when I could be running. Restless, unable to just… be.

  Those qualities had made my dad the life of the party, loved by everyone. And me? I killed the man who was my mother’s entire life, the man who could make her laugh and cry and laugh again all in the space of a single heartbeat. Every time my mom looked at me, that’s who she saw.

  It’s been twenty-two years since my dad died. I glanced up at Jacob, wishing he were telling the truth, that my mom did send him to ask me to join the family. That she wanted me. There, alongside my sister and cousins and the laughter and joy. Silly, wistful thinking. You’d think an ER doc would know better. “No, she didn’t.”

  He didn’t waste any breath with a sigh. “All right, she didn’t. But everyone else did.”

  My shoulders hunched in regret, I turned my back on Jacob to aim a stream of sterile water at Ryder’s laceration.

  “Hey, that’s cold,” he protested, but he didn’t flinch or move away as I doused him and his shirt. That’s what he got for insisting on sitting up in the chair rather than lying down.

  “Your shift was over at seven, and it’s now twelve after eight.” Jacob tried again. He’s almost as stubborn as I am. “C’mon. It’ll be fun. The whole band is there. Besides, you look tired. Play a few sets with us. It’ll work the kinks out.”

  By that, I knew he meant we’d work some kinks out, after my uncle’s bar closed down for the night and everyone went home. Usually, I enjoy playing fiddle in the ceili band my father had founded. Just as I usually look forward to the physical intimacy Jacob offers. But not tonight. Jacob knew me far too well. My secret wasn’t safe from him. If he noticed my night sweats or tremors or the sudden stumbles as my feet forgot which way was down, he’d be pounding on Louise’s door, holiday or no holiday, and insist I get a head-to-toe checkup.

  I didn’t need a checkup. All I needed was a good night’s sleep. It’d been so long that the idea of sleep was more appealing than sex. How sad is that?

  As I turned to grab the stapler, Ryder mopped the water from his face with his shirt-sleeve.

  “Matthew Ryder,”
Jacob said, showing no embarrassment over exposing our family’s—my family’s—dirty laundry to a co-worker. “I didn’t recognize you under all that blood.”

  “Hey there, Voorsanger. Minor cooking accident. The kitchen is in worse shape than I am.”

  “Heard you’re taking Harrison’s place on Sex Crimes. You up for it?” His voice held a challenge.

  I glanced from one man to the other, wondering if there was a reason why Ryder might not be ready to take over Mitch Harrison’s case load. Particularly the string of sadistic sexual assaults that had plagued the city the past few months. All tied to one assailant using a street drug nicknamed Death Head to subdue his victims. Harrison had been frustrated as hell by the case, chased down every lead, but at the time he’d spun out on that bridge two weeks ago, he’d gotten nowhere.

  Ryder didn’t answer Jacob right away. Instead, he held his gaze steady, meeting Jacob’s dead-on. “Yeah. I’m up for it. Soon as the doc puts my scalp back together, that is.”

  Taking my cue, I wielded the surgical stapler, breaking up their touching reunion. “Jacob, I’m sure they’re waiting for you back at the bar.” My Uncle Jimmy’s bar hosted all our family holidays. “And you,” I pivoted Ryder back into place and planted a firm hand on his head, “hold still.”

  The sharp clack of the stapler firing snapped through the room, making them both jerk.

  “I’ll figure out something to tell your mother.” Jacob spoke as if granting me a royal boon. “Call me when you’re done here.” He left, the curtain rattling shut. I was surprised the blood hadn’t scared him off earlier. Like I said. Stubborn.

  Then he poked his face through the curtain again. Beckoning me to come closer. I leaned toward him.

  “You sure you’re okay?” His low baritone was for my ears only, as was the concern on his face.

  “Go. Have fun with my crazy family. I’m fine.”