Abbey takes the pistol, ejects the magazine, and looks inside. It’s fully loaded with ammunition. I figured it would be empty. I was in greater danger when yanking the gun from the laundry chute than from being bit by the upside-down rodent. She clicks the magazine back in place with the finesse of Jason Stratham in one of his over-the-top action flicks.
“I had no idea the gun was loaded that entire time,” I say, considering how close I came to eating a bullet. When I pulled the damn thing from the laundry chute, the barrel was pointing directly at my face.
“The safety was on, so you were actually in no danger of harming yourself.”
I’m not so sure if I believe her. In my haste, accidentally clicking off the safety would have been easy to do. “Was he planning to kill more people?” I ask, instead of harping about the gun.
“That’s not our concern,” she states. “Remember why you are here. Your mission is to drop the gun in the well before the time expires.”
She hands me a small leather case that looks to have been designed specifically for this model of handgun. She is sure able to pull random items out of her ass. I can’t tell if I’m dealing with Samantha from Bewitched or Willy Wonka.
“You will need to place the pistol inside the case and seal it up,” she instructs, placing both items in my hands. “Once you toss the leather case down the well, your wish will become official, my dear.”
“Is it that easy?”
“What you executed in your uncle’s basement was the intricate detail. In any event, what you are doing now is the easy part.”
She has no idea the terror I felt throughout that ordeal. He was just seconds away from nabbing me. “I did make it back in one piece, so I’m pleased about that.”
“You should be quite proud of yourself,” she says, smiling. “Ms. McAllister, you don’t have much faith in your ability to follow through on complicated actions, but you made it back with time to spare—without any assistance. Take pride that you were able to fully carry out your end under such convoluted conditions. That shows the strength in your character. You are capable of much more than you give yourself credit for. The next time you are faced with a perplexing decision, don’t elect to take the easiest route.”
This may be the first time in a while I’ve been given accolades for a job well done. She should be out helping troubled girls lift their self-esteem rather than spending her time granting wishes.
“My dear, you have just over two minutes left,” she reminds me, breaking my self-reflection. “Place the gun inside, zip it tightly, and drop it inside the well. The case must hit the water before the time expires. Once executed, your life will change.”
I swiftly stuff the revolver inside the fur-lined case, zip it, and fasten the buckle. After all the stress encountered in Willie’s basement, I certainly don’t want the time to expire at this stage and lose my wish. I walk to the edge of the well, look down into the blackness, and release the leather case from my hand. Seconds later, the leather case splashes in the water below. For the first time in my life, I feel hopeful about my present and my future.
“Okay, it’s finished with time to spare.”
I turn around to find that Abbey is no longer standing behind me. I lean against the stone foundation of the well and survey the area. It’s as if the mysterious woman vaporized into the light patch of fog hovering above the dewy grass.
From where I’m standing, not a single business on Main Street is still open, yet I can see the outline of The Blue Dragon’s sign. Holy shit—we’ve returned to my time—or at least to a time when you can no longer rent a DVD on Main Street. I realize it’s the wee hours of the morning, but nothing in the general area looks much different than before we left. Well, other than the fact that Robbie is no longer waiting to pound the living piss out of me. If that is all that has changed at the moment, I’ll take it.
Chapter 7
Derek
As I stare down a desolate country road, only a sliver of daylight remains on the horizon as dusk blends into the arriving night. An approaching siren wails in the distance as the rooftop lights of a police car reflect off the cracked pavement like a spastic Christmas display. When I look down, I’m kneeling in front of an injured woman lying face down across the centerline. My hands are pressing a white towel against the bleeding laceration near her right shoulder blade.
I unsnap my holster. With no handbag in sight, the girl undoubtedly decamped from a dangerous situation. My primary objective is to control the bleeding, but I need to anticipate an armed assailant. She fell face down with her arms cradling her forehead. From this angle, all I can determine is that she is thin with wavy blonde hair. With the amount of blood saturating her light-blue halter-top, I am reluctant to move her.
When the ambulance arrives, it parks about thirty feet ahead. In less than a minute, the paramedics are pushing an emergency stretcher in the direction of the nameless victim.
“We’ll take it from here, Sheriff,” says a burly paramedic carrying an extensive first aid kit.
“I need to identify her,” I tell him, wiping away some of the sweat from my forehead.
“There’ll be plenty of time for that after she’s stabilized. We need room to check her vitals. In the meantime, grab some wipes from the back of the ambulance and clean up your hands.”
Reluctantly, I walk to the rear of the ambulance and grab a few sanitary wipes. Upon scrubbing away the last trace of blood from my fingers, I detect some rustling in the foliage beyond the ditch. The glow of the full moon casts enough light to see the outline of a large man creeping behind a tree less than 200 feet away. I pretend as if I didn’t notice anything.
I throw the last bloodstained hand-wipe into the biohazard receptacle. I casually walk to the driver’s side of the ambulance in an attempt to sneak up on the suspicious spectator. My heart beats rapidly from being out in the open. I hunch down and move cautiously to the front of the vehicle. I draw my gun, click off the safety, and lean against the bug-covered grille. As I’m ready to rush toward the perpetrator, the night fades to gray, and I find myself in my bed. Due to the adrenaline from the dream, I jumped a few inches from my pillow upon rousing.
This is the same damn dream I’ve been having for the past week. I just don’t understand what it means. I’ve had recurring dreams in the past but never for six nights in a row. This dream is structured like a vivid memory ending at the same exact moment; it has no real start, and I cannot get beyond the front of the ambulance before waking.
The country road in the dream isn’t vaguely familiar. The trees all leaned inward as if a wicked thunderstorm could uproot them. Other than that, the location could have been any rural stretch of highway. I did notice a Kentucky-shaped crack in the cement near the centerline. I’m not sure if this is noteworthy or just my subconscious telling me to pack my shit and relocate to Louisville.
The injured girl in the dream is the real mystery. Once again, the woman’s long blonde hair had ensconced her face. I feel like the dream should be getting fuzzier each night, but it’s gaining intensity like restoring an old photograph with Photoshop. It’s odd that the vision fades away as soon as I approach the perpetrator in the woods. Could my recurring dream be some type of warning?
Since the dream keeps occurring, I’ve been wrestling with the idea of entering a sleep study to reveal the root of this recurring vision. By joining a sleep study, you are bound to disclose personal details that you may not want to be discovered. As soon as the team of experts attached the electrodes to my body, someone would be asking about the two-inch scar across my bicep—a souvenir from the most notorious mass murderer presently at large in Illinois.
Most people know about the wound because the assassination attempt was reported on the front page of every newspaper from here to Libertyville. Two months have passed since that harrowing afternoon, so most people have switched to the latest tragedy being splashed across the headlines. It wouldn’t take much for anyone to recall the deta
ils of that crazy day. I was quite fortunate that his aim was a little off because he rarely misses a kill shot. Unfortunately, my wound provided a distraction for the sick bastard to escape. If you ask me, it was as if he disappeared into thin air.
I’ve watched the event from six different camera angles and cannot come up with any other rationalization. He was inside the bank. The police had the building surrounded, and then he was gone. My scar is a daily reminder of our department’s well-publicized mistake; we looked like a bunch of clowns that couldn’t get out of our way. Of course, most of the blame was placed on me for getting shot—as if I had any choice in the matter.
As far as police officers go, I am not built for small city law enforcement. The majority of my time is spent on pointless domestic disputes, traffic infractions, and paperwork. My angst only goes away upon removing the uniform following my shift. Other than Barney Miller, I can’t recall a police show where most of the hour was spent typing up reports. Reruns of Baretta were full of high-speed car chases and occasionally tackling a perp in a gritty alley. Taking a bullet in the arm was the most action I’ve seen in 17 years on the force. We’re here to protect and to serve—but mostly to write up citations.
When I took the oath, I thought being in law enforcement would eventually lead to a position within the FBI. I expected to be assigned to the division that investigates paranormal and unexplained phenomena. My blind ambition was a result of watching too many episodes of The X Files—not that I was so delusional that I expected to be the next Fox Mulder. It seemed logical that more positions would be created to explore crimes with a supernatural undercurrent. My interest in the FBI has waned in recent years. When not in uniform, I’ve channeled that energy into writing.
Even when I’m on traffic duty, I often jot down plot ideas inside a small memo pad tucked in my back pocket. I am obsessed with the unexplored side of science fiction. I’m not one of those rabid fans that attended this year’s Comic-Con or stood in line for the reboot of Star Wars. For me, science fiction is about looking beyond the borders of what we’re expected to believe while glimpsing the broader picture of what is possible. My view of the world is not black and white. I’d wager there are forces at work that defy logic and stretch the limits of our conscious understanding. My active imagination hasn’t made me a favored member of the police force, but I feel it makes me an engaging writer.
My interest in writing was triggered by the Twilight Zone episode with the evil kid that wished his neighbors, relatives, and animals into the cornfield. I was nine at the time, and my creative side began to emanate. Now that I’m 38, it’s feeling a bit late to switch careers. Bruce Willis was a bartender before stepping into the ring as an actor, so I shouldn’t shit on what might be possible down the line.
Fortunately, writing is one of those pursuits that a person can do while being employed elsewhere. Having a full-time law enforcement gig slows me down. Luckily, I’m enterprising enough to stay focused on a story rather than getting caught up in the distractions that will keep my creative side from percolating. The biggest detractor was my former girlfriend, Heidi. A few months ago, she extricated herself from my life by her own hand.
Considering I’m approaching the midlife crisis point, people often wonder why I have yet to tie the knot. Much of this has to do with my varied interests that don’t usually mesh with my exterior. Women get enticed by the handsome guy they see in front of them while initially ignoring my love of hard rock music, obscure comics, and science fiction. I can be overly friendly but can also use sarcasm to diffuse tense situations. Women often have found my childish interests cute at the onset of a relationship. It’s all a masquerade because they want to lock down a guy that will eventually long to decorate the house in light colors with accents from Ikea.
So what’s my problem? On the outside, I look seemingly ordinary. With my light brown hair, sculpted jaw, and blue eyes, I practically possess movie star looks. Well, except for the noticeable indentation in the center of my forehead that I recently got on the job. I’ve considered growing bangs to conceal it. I’m also big on color-coordinating my clothing. I don’t do this to put on a show or to get attention. See, I don’t need a lot of women noticing me; I just need one that gets me. Until I’m earning a paycheck creatively, very few “normal” women will give me a pass for being a bit eccentric.
What also hasn’t helped in the area of coupling is that I have an undiagnosed form of attention deficit disorder. I don’t openly admit this to anyone on the force because they’d suddenly look at me as undependable, which is far from the case. I’m able to focus heavily on one thing at a time—especially when it’s exciting, pleasurable, or is required to keep a positive balance in my checking account. When an activity is tedious or spiritless, I can be easily distracted. I’ve worked hard to control this limitation, but it hasn’t been easy.
Working full-time for the police department while writing novels on the side, I’ve often had to slip a girlfriend carefully into my schedule. Even though I’ve often been stretched a little thin, I’d go out of my way to be attentive. When you have work responsibilities, creative pursuits, and the A.D.D. cherry perched on top, you genuinely need to be with someone afflicted with similar obstacles. I’ve only been blessed once with a woman that would have truly understood me. I blew it over an issue that now seems insignificant.
Today, I have more weighty issues than worrying about my single status. With this morning’s sunrise, I’ve been hearing a vibration that has grown into a sustained humming—like a swarm of locusts devouring a field of its vegetation. At first, I thought the static was caused by wax pushing against my eardrum. I threw on headphones and could no longer hear it. I walked outside and found that it was coming directly from the east. My intuition tells me some type of massive calamity is approaching. I’m not sure if anyone else can hear it. I’m too afraid to ask a neighbor if they are picking up the same hissing. If you start talking about erratic pulsations that no one else can feel or hear, you risk being sent to Franklin Hills—the place where they collect the crazies!
While indoors, the thrum is subdued enough to get inside my own head. This is fortunate because the morning and afternoon will be spent writing my heart out. Longing to be a novelist is not about seeing my name in print as much as discovering concepts with a terrifying ring of truth to them. Therefore, I have no interest in churning out humdrum topics in an overpopulated market. Far too many writers—both published and self-published—are saturating the overstuffed shelves with middling material. A writer compromises the art when aiming exclusively for commercial success. Being in the dark about market trends keeps my writing pure; it also keeps me unpublished!
I’ve been tapping away on the keyboard for a half hour when my phone starts chirping. When the creative juices are flowing, I usually switch off the phone. The display shows Matthew Leighton, the CEO of Leighton Publishing. I initially programmed in his number as a joke, serving as a goal that he’d “one day” become a regular contact.
After I was shot, his company contacted me about writing a non-fiction account of my harrowing experience. They thought the book would become quite popular with the demographic that consumes real-life crime stories. Although Leighton Publishing offered me a nice little advance to pen the title, writing more than 80 pages on the subject would have been a struggle.
I declined because I’ve never been into non-fiction accounts of people that become popular for a split second; I have no interest being “known” primarily for a painful and embarrassing moment of my life. Whenever newsworthy events trend online, publishers like Leighton, Simon and Schuster, and Random House will often throw a lucrative book offer in the direction of those making headlines. The publishers are aware that book buyers will scarf up the material as long as it comes out while the subject is still a hot topic.
I let the call go directly to voicemail because I have no interest in a 30-minute back and forth about entertaining another offer. The advance would be enough
to quit my job for a year, write that book, and possibly finish one of my fiction titles. However, I’d just become famous as “that cop that survived an assassination attempt.” Upon releasing my first fiction title, it would merely serve as a companion piece to the non-fiction book—purchased mainly out of curiosity by about 30% of the audience. My second book would fizzle because no one would care about me anymore. We’ve seen this occur when a popular music performer is cast as a lead in a movie. They are solid in that one film, and then no one gives a shit—except in the case of Vanilla Ice because no one gave a shit about his first movie either.
Before a voicemail had time to record, Matthew is calling again. This is unusual for such an essential player in the publishing game to call in such rapid succession. I admit that my curiosity is piqued. I quit typing, pick up the phone, and deliver a warm greeting.
“Officer Delaney, this is Matthew Leighton.” He didn’t even address me by my first name . . . something is up!
“Hello, Mr. Leighton, how are you today?” When receiving an unexpected call from a heavyweight in the publishing world, it is in my best interest to be as cordial as possible—even on a day when I’m desperately trying to get 2,500 words down.
“We’ve had a bit of a scuff over here,” he says. “I would not have called you at home, but you should be aware of the situation. Carolyn Hollingsworth, our human resource director, was assaulted this morning by a young woman by the name of Mandi McAllister.”
“Mandi McAllister?” I ask in bewilderment. “Are you certain it was her?”
“Quite certain. Her signed application is on the desk in front of me. She was escorted from the building about ten minutes ago by an officer from your department.”
In Dark Places Page 12