Night Visions by Thomas Fahy Page A

rings.
    â€œHey, babe, how y’ doin’?”
    â€œDon!” She is relieved it’s not a client. “How are things?”
    â€œGood. Just giving my grad students hell. You know, the usual.”
    â€œI’m sure they love you.”
    â€œWell, I wouldn’t say that, but I’m perfectly happy living in denial. Anyway, I found some interesting material on that piece you asked me about—the Goldberg Variations. ”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œSupposedly, a man named Count Keyserlingk commissioned it from Bach in the early 1740s. He was an insomniac who wanted a musical soporific. So Bach wrote this piece—a theme and variations—and the count had his musician-in-service, Johann Goldberg, play it for him at all hours of the night.” He pauses for a moment, then adds: “And I thought getting tenure sucked.”
    â€œInsomnia,” she echoes.
    â€œYep.”
    â€œDid it work?”
    â€œDid it work?” he says, surprised by the question. “I don’t know. It’s a pretty long piece; maybe it bored him to sleep.” He laughs.
    â€œI mean, is there any record of the count’s response to it?”
    â€œNot that I know of, but I only did a preliminary search.”
    â€œCan you find out if there is more to the story?”
    â€œSure, I can talk to a few people, check a few sources—”
    â€œThat would be great, Don. I’d really appreciate it.”
    He pauses, then asks, “So when are you going to let me in on the secret? You said this has to do with a case you’re working on. How so?”
    She sighs. “Where to start…”
    â€œHow about ‘Once upon a time’?”
    â€œAll right….”
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    For the next two hours, Samantha works halfheartedly on three cases and watches the phone, once again waiting for Frank to call. She begins a will for one of her HIV clients, but now Catherine’s face looks back at her from the computer screen. Samantha’s head starts to pound. She turns away from the screen, closing her eyes for a moment, then decides to step outside.
    A mist has settled over the parking lot, and a cold wind pinches her cheeks. Samantha won’t be able to stay long without her jacket, which she left dangling on the kitchen chair in a rush to leave for work. She lingers, hoping the cool air will ease her headache. Is this a side effect of the treatment? she wonders.
    A sudden pain pierces her ears and temples, as if she were descending too fast in a plane with poor cabin pressure. Everything becomes white.
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    Two red eyes glow in the darkness. No, they are not eyes, she thinks, but doors. Crimson doors. She walks toward them slowly, then climbs a few steps leading to an enclosed porch. Something is waiting in the corner. She can hear it breathing.
    The figure steps toward her.
    She lifts her arm instinctively, as if a gesture might stop him, and she sees a knife in her own hand.
    He takes another step.
    She doesn’t wait for him to get any closer before lunging at him with the blade.
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    â€œSam? Samantha!” The legal clinic’s director crouches above her with one knee on the ground. She places her right hand on Samantha’s cheek. “What happened?”
    â€œI must have fainted….” She blinks several times.
    Julie looks doubtful as she helps Samantha stand. Julie’s usual composure and professionalism have been replaced by fear. Helplessness. Thick and powerful, Julie can usually handle board meetings, conference calls, belligerent clients, and disgruntled lawyers. But seeing a friend lying unconscious on the ground rattles her.
    â€œMaybe you should see a doctor. Let me drive you.”
    â€œNo, really. I’m all right.”
    â€œYour cases can wait. I’m taking you to a doctor, for Christ’s sake.” The assertiveness returns. She takes hold of Samantha’s left arm.
    â€œLet me come inside and sit down for