Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  Marci glanced at the closed door. She wanted to see Lisa, felt more love for her than she thought possible for a friend, but she had hoped to do so with her parents present, in case she needed a quick escape. Now, what if she screamed at Marci for putting her in harm’s way? What could Marci say?

  As if sensing her trepidation, Dr. Flemming said, “Lisa’s awake. It’s a perfect time to go in. She’s been pressing her morphine drip frequently, so she might seem slow, but she needs social support.”

  “Is that plastic shield over her face because…” She swallowed instead of saying, the bones underneath no longer support her flesh.

  “She’s lucky to be alive and some upcoming procedures will carry risk. She’s suffering from a severe concussion and spatial dementia. If you see her staring at the ceiling, she is experiencing vertigo.”

  “No long-term damage?”

  “Her nose is severely damaged. Reconstructive surgery will give a presentable appearance, not perfection. Her greater mandible,” he traced his finger along his mustache line, “was obliterated. Again, they will fit her with a synthetic replacement.” He checked his watch and spoke with more immediacy. “She will live, but attitude is the greatest risk to her health. Your support will help her full recovery better than any science.”

  Marci pressed her lips together. Prison would be too good for the people responsible for this, and kidnapping a child to boot. A chill ran through her as she pictured innocent Janey looking down at the bloodied carcass of her babysitter.

  Dr. Flemming rested a hand on her shoulder. “She’s suffered a tragedy. Just like I told her parents, emotional support is the surest way to expedite a full recovery.”

  “That’s what you predict? A full recovery to the happy, confident young woman I know.”

  He sucked air between his teeth. “That’s the hope. I’ve seen patients lose everyone they love, everything they own, and their mobility in a single incident, and turn it into a positive. Other’s learn they can no longer sprint as fast as they used to and give up. You can’t predict a person’s resilience.” He checked his watch again. “I really must run.”

  Marci watched him leave, took a second to compose herself, and knocked lightly on the door before letting herself in.

  Lisa was awake. The plastic mask and the presence of Lisa’s parents had kept Marci staring on previous visits. With her awake and under normal lighting, she saw bruising colored the majority of her face, darkest around the mouth and eyes. Her left pupil, normally bright and sparkling with that sky blue center, resembled a cracked egg leaking blood.

  Stitches striped her skin above her right eye, and on numerous sites on her blotchy-haired and partially bandaged head. To Marci, Lisa’s nose appeared intact, just a lot smaller, perhaps a touch crooked. The snot crusting her upper lip held Marci’s attention more than the slight indent of the flesh, or the strange sound of her breathing through a mouth guard.

  Marci attempted to smile as Lisa’s eyes tracked her, but it wavered at a grin, and dropped. Easing past the bed, her own eyes averted to the heavily autographed cast on her arm.

  Lisa laid with her arms straight down her side as if too terrified to move until Marci rendered judgment.

  She stepped to Lisa’s side, took her hand, and squeezed.

  “I visited before, but you were sleeping.”

  Lisa nodded and blinked slowly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Where’s Janey?” Through the mouth guard and tentative movements, the words came out as, ‘airs ainy.’

  “They’re going to find her safe and sound. The cops might not believe it, but we know where she is, and how to get her back.”

  A tear streamed Lisa’s cheek. She turned her head away from Marci and sucked in through her mouth, giving Marci a view of her gumline. Jagged teeth lay under the clear plastic. Before Marci could console her further, her own tears drained.

  “Ess eye aul.” It’s my fault.

  “No, girl. No,” Marci scooted closer. Lisa pulled away. “It’s not your fault. No one could be braver than you.”

  Marci heard a click. Following the sound, she saw Lisa had pressed for more morphine.

  Marci squeezed Lisa’s hand, and through trembling lips said, “Don’t talk like that, You can’t. I’m so proud of the way you defended Janey. And she’s okay. Mothers know these things. She’s somewhere eating ice cream and watching Dora the Explorer.”

  Lisa thumbed the depressor in succession, but the plunger fell without the tell-tale click of activation.

  Marci squeezed her hand harder, drawing Lisa’s attention. “We’re going to get her back and make the bastard pay. I know you hurt more than those injuries, but don’t hurt us further by blaming yourself.” Lisa closed her eyes. “Do you hear me?” Marci knocked on the cast. “We’re all going to be okay.”

  Lisa opened her eyes, found Marci, and nodded.

  Before Marci could say anything profound about vengeance or Janey needing Lisa, the morphine drip clicked again. As the Narcotic reached Lisa’s bloodstream, she nodded repeatedly, stared past Marci, and bowed out.

  FORTY-TWO

  There was a vacancy in Corey. Not grief or sobs, because he believed Marci—things would work out and this separation from their daughter was only temporary—but there was an emptiness, as if all the organs and piping in his chest were gone.

  Attending service at Hope’s Corner returned some feelings. The congregation prayed for the Padesky’s, Lisa, and her family. After the service, as he waited in the foyer, members asked how he was doing, how the investigation progressed, and although Marci never attended, they passed along well-wishes for her. He received many baked goods. One woman gave him her good-luck sweater. She told him she wore it every time her only son, who was a member of special forces in Baghdad, had his communication privileges pulled, meaning an upcoming mission. He’d returned home, safe, and she believed the sweater helped focus her prayers.

  Coming from the snipping world of academics, where friends only supported one another during stable times, Corey marveled at the solidarity of these Christians. Without saying as much to Marci, he considered himself a convert.

  As the numbers thinned, Justin refilled their coffees. The two men headed downstairs where people would socialize.

  “So,” Justin said as he dropped into a seat in a far corner. “You seem to be keeping it together on the outside. How are you feeling inside?”

  “Here, I’m okay. At home, if Marci is talking or near me, I’m decent. When alone, reality crashes in and…” His eyes watered. He closed them tight.

  “What do you think about joining me tonight? We’ll stop by the pick-up addresses, fill the back of the truck with donated blankets, and when the sun goes down, pass them out to the homeless around Vegas.”

  “Yeah, count me in.” Corey had been involving himself in positive activity more and more. He was up to twenty hours of volunteer work in the past week. Somehow, seeing appreciation on the faces of the forgotten convinced him of his righteous alignment; that no matter what tomorrow brought, as long as he adhered to noble—even Biblical—principles, he would have peace of mind, and in the long run, good tidings.

  “I’ll tell ya, bud,” Justin said. “I’m glad you have Marci. She’s a strong woman, but I wonder if she needs more consoling from you?”

  Console Marci? She had started doing push-ups each afternoon and scouring Google Earth to learn the geography of Chicago, and the routes near Walt’s condo, in expectation of a hot extract. She outlined pages of possible scenarios, contingency plans, and exit strategies, all in preparation of trading their Dream Riding secret for Janey.

  “She’s tough,” Justin continued, “but some of it has to be bluster. All wives need their husband’s support, just like a husbands need the support of their wives.”

  Corey pulled his ponytail from the center of his back and let it drape over one shoulder. “I could be more supportive, definitely. Although I’m not convinced she’s wor
ried, like I am. With the FBI backing off, she believes Walt is hours away from making contact; and once we give him Dream Riding, he’ll give us Janey.”

  “And you think you can pass Dream Riding to another person?”

  “We plan to come clean. Tell him all we know. Look, he won. We give. It’s that simple. We want our daughter back and will do whatever it takes. We cooperate, he accepts that, we move on, end of story.”

  Justin nodded pensively. Corey could almost read his friend’s mind: Walt would never let them go.

  “If things shake out,” Justin said. “Janey gets returned, Dream Riding is gone, and you guys have assurance of no backlash. What then? Call the cops?”

  “I’m not thinking about justice, or revenge. I miss my little girl. If she’s back, unharmed, I’m the happiest man alive.”

  “And for work?”

  “I’d finish my degree,” Corey replied reflexively. A moment to digest, and he nodded to himself, impressed with the ease of that conviction. “I’d seek my professorship.”

  “The anxieties on that front are gone?”

  “Submersion therapy.” Corey said with a grin. “I feared uncovering some hidden knowledge or invisible truth would take my sanity. I’ve been submerged in an alternate reality for months. It seems to have cured me.”

  “Don’t forget about the quality friends you’ve made.” Justin smiled. “The Collins clan, as well as everyone here.” Though he and Justin had been speaking in a low voice, when Justin motioned to the room, each head focused on them and shared encouraging looks.

  If Lisa returned from her parents in Colorado, she’d add another level of positive support. Corey smirked at all they had. Once Janey returned, it’d be a good life.

  “Through all of this, I’ve gained a comfort with myself. Besides, Marci would—” Corey paused. At the enunciation of her name, he thought he heard her voice echoing down the stairwell, calling his name.

  Justin turned as well.

  A second later, the patter of hurried steps down the stairs. Marci turned the corner.

  Her serious features lasered in on Corey. She marched directly to him.

  “Hello, Justin. Excuse us, please.” She grabbed Corey’s arm, guided him from his seat, and dragged him toward the exit, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. With all eyes on them, she leaned close and whispered, “It’s time to get our baby girl.” She released him and dashed up the steps.

  With a backward glance to Justin, Corey arched his eyebrows, swallowed, and raced after his wife.

  As Corey climbed into the Jetta, which was parked at the bottom of the steps to Hope’s Corner, his eyes gravitated to the stuffed suitcase in the backseat. The scent of gasoline overpowered the senses.

  Marci sped into a narrow opening in traffic.

  Corey braced, then asked, “What happened?”

  “The bastard texted me with one of those messages that corrodes and disappears after ten seconds. ‘Sign your name and all is returned’. That piece of slime.”

  “Slow down,” Corey said as the Jetta weaved between vehicles. “Getting us pulled over will cost more time than speeding saves.”

  She narrowed her eyes, but slowed a few miles per hour.

  “Where are we headed, right now?”

  “We’re going to drive to that asshole’s house.”

  “Drive? Why not fly?”

  “We can make it there in thirty hours.” She snatched a covered cup from the holder and drank what he presumed was strong coffee. “We can’t fly and give the Feebs evidence, or a means to track us.”

  “Feebs?”

  “I withdrew fifteen hundred in cash, filled the tank and a couple of ten-gallon cans with gas. We can make it with only one stop there and one stop back., so if they get us on camera at a gas station, it’ll be west of the Mississippi, and prove nothing.”

  “You expect us to show up at his house and do a swap?”

  “That’s right. He’ll get what he’s been after, we get what we want, and go our separate ways.”

  Corey inhaled. He had made peace with losing Dream Riding and their ambitions of wealth days ago. A hope surged in him, then stopped. Glancing at his focused wife, an icy fog settled around him. What would happen when they came face-to-face with the man who caused them so much horror?

  FORTY-THREE

  Corey and Marci coordinated the drive. Six hour stretches, where they stayed ten to twenty miles above the speed limit, located side roads to tend fuel and urinate.

  Corey grew tired, but couldn’t sleep. He traveled with his head against the glass, in a trance-like state. When they parked the car in an overnight ramp in downtown Chicago, the entire journey seemed to have passed in a haze. All the car-lag, muscle cramps, and wandering thoughts vanished the instant Marci depressed the elevator call button to take them to Walt’s floor.

  Using the glossy walls in the elevator like a mirror, he examined Marci. She displayed a look similar to their first appointment with Mr. Labarge: confident in a successful outcome.

  Corey slowed his heart rate with controlled breaths. He kept seeing flashes of Janey’s lifeless body. He needed to focus on the immediate. Follow Marci’s lead and hope for the best.

  When the door opened on Walt’s floor, Marci sprang from the box. She pressed the doorbell and knocked hard enough to bruise her knuckles.

  Kendra Houghton answered. She wore a maroon sweater so dark it neared the color of spoiled blood. Silver bangles adorned her wrists and provided a tinkle of sound as she slid her hand up the door’s edge. Her gray-streaked brown hair was tied behind her. That, and the dim interior lighting made it feel like they had interrupted her on her way to a social gathering.

  “Welcome, Mr. and Mrs. Padesky.” She examined the arrivals from head to toe. “Is there something I can help you with?”

  “Cut the crap,” Marci said and pushed past her. “We’re here to deal. Where is she?”

  Cooper stepped from a side room and blocked Marci from venturing further into the home.

  “Where is whom?” Kendra replied, the bracelets jangling as she crossed her arms.

  Corey broke the threshold and stopped in front of a new six foot tall six foot wide painting, lit by a staging lamp. It was the planet Jupiter, captured in enough detail to steal Corey’s attention. His eyes gravitated to the dark spot, sometimes referred to as the eye of Jupiter. In this hallway, on this day, it seemed like the portal to Hell.

  Marci sighed. “You can shut the door. We’re here to do as you asked, get our daughter, and never see one another again.”

  Kendra eased the door shut. “I’m very sorry about your child going missing. Mr. Zimbardo was interviewed by the FBI, and cleared. Against my advice, he granted permission for you to enter, in case we could assist you, but if you’ve come here to cause problems, it will be a short visit.”

  “We’re going to,” Marci made quotations, “‘sign our names and get all returned.’”

  Cooper said as he neared, “Lift your arms.” He pulled a device the size of a fat cell phone from his pocket. “This will fry any electronics you have, so if you want to save your phone or your skin from burns, now is the time to give it up.”

  “We left everything in Nevada.”

  Cooper traced her body with the contraption. Stopping every foot and a half, he pressed the side button, but nothing happened.

  Once Cooper executed the same scan on Corey, he addressed Kendra. “They’re clean.”

  On the stroll through the wide, opulent hall, and apparently under a more relaxed guard, Kendra spoke past Marci and Corey, and addressed Cooper. “Any word from the others?”

  Cooper replied, “Zero activity within a two-block radius. The FBI is not involved.”

  “Looks like you two might not be as stupid as I think you are,” Kendra said. After a beat in silence, she lightened her tone. “You made excellent time from Henderson. Was there much traffic?”

  “I want to see Janey,” Marci said.

  Corey paused
at the open-doored entrance to the dining hall. Thick drapes blotted out all traces of sunshine from the wall of windows. Flame-shaped bulbs glowed orange on the interior wall of the wood-lined room. Oil wicked lanterns lined the table, complimenting the roaring fire at the head of the chamber, which provided a great source of amorphous light.

  Cooper moved to the side between a set of drapes, and leaned his back against the wall. With his black attire, and spiked red hair, he practically vanished.

  “We’re not taking another step until I know Janey is safe,” Marci said.

  “You’re going to have to speak to Mr. Zimbardo,” Kendra said as she motioned inside, waited a second, and retreated in the opposite direction.

  A man was squatted down at the far end of the study, behind the behemoth table, examining the fire.

  Marci squeezed Corey’s hand, and without looking away from the awaiting scene, she released her grip and entered the room.

  Each footstep caused an echo, alerting Walt of their approach. He rose in a fluid motion, stepped from behind the walnut table, and spread his arms wide. “I’m so glad this day has arrived.”

  Walt’s appearance stole Corey’s breath. His normally styled black hair was disheveled. Gaunt features illuminated a dramatic loss of weight, or lack of quality sleep. His Jesus Christ pose expanded the silk of his white robe trimmed in red, which he wore over a matching two-piece pajama set. With the dark room, crackling fire, and magnitude of the situation, Corey thought Walt looked like a witch doctor preparing to open a lamb’s throat with a rusty machete.

  Walt grabbed the lapels of his robe and said, “I changed into my best sleepwear once we spotted your car. I’m hoping to be in dream land soon. My team will record everything, and I’ll wake to a realigned world.”

  “Where’s Janey?” Marci said.

  Cooper’s voice followed hers, “They’re clean. We’re clear.”

  Walt nodded, and continued, “Obviously, due to all this unpleasantness, collaboration is out of the question, but I have a new deal for you. One that’s more than fair, given the circumstances, and all that you’ve put me through.”