Summoned Dreams

by Hadena James

  “They sedated you to put in stitches. You were violent when you woke up. I had to subdue you. Do you remember any of it?” He asked.

  “Nope,” I responded. “How violent?” He stepped closer and I could see he was sporting a black eye. “Sorry.”

  “It sounds hollow when you apologize,” he answered. “I won’t hold the black eye or the bad apology against you.”

  “How long did I sleep?” I asked, taking hold of his arm to stop him from leaving.

  “About six hours. The wound wasn’t deep. The concussion is mild. You might have a little bit of a stiff neck, but there was no indication of trauma,” Green told me.

  “Caleb,” I looked at him. “I meant it when I said you were a good agent. I see why Malachi relies on you so much.”

  “Speaking of which, I’m supposed to let Malachi and Gabriel know when you’re awake.” He gently took his arm back. I had forgotten I was holding it. “Xavier’s awake, but you can’t see him until tomorrow.”

  “Where am I?” I asked, realizing the room didn’t smell of sage or incense.

  “Malachi’s room,” he answered.

  “Then why are you keeping watch instead of Malachi?”

  “Because I was with you when you went down. It’s better if the same person is there when you come back up,” he answered and left.

  My stomach growled. It had been a while since I had eaten lunch. My hope had been to hit five today. I started getting dressed. My team could grab dinner and grab another serial killer before calling it a night.

  It no longer bothered me to wake up in pajamas after passing out in my clothes. Lucas did most of the dressing and undressing. He was trustworthy.

  My spells were getting worse though and that did bother me. Every minor bump and knock to the head made me pass out anymore. My short-term memory was being affected as well, evidenced by the fact that I didn’t remember any part of my trip to the hospital. Essentially, I needed to start wearing my tactical helmet all the time or find a new line of work.

  I couldn’t imagine doing anything but this. This was something I was good it. It was about the only thing I was good at.

  My tablet beeped at me. We had some more names of suspects. I had complete reports on them starting with their childhoods and ending with their current locations. It also included what the prostitutes and social workers had said about the person. The first one I opened was about a priest.

  Bellamy Schneider liked to pick up girls. He just never returned them. Everyone had a vice, even priests. Killing prostitutes was an extreme vice, especially for a priest, but he wouldn’t be the first serial killing priest I’d met. He’d be the second. The other had killed gay men. It was a totally different vice.

  With the tablet in hand, I went to assemble my team. This earned me a lecture from Gabriel. Malachi shouted at me. I promised to wear my helmet and let someone else go through the door first.

  DSI Lingon wasn’t willing to go back out. Instead, he asked to switch places with DSI Quinton Cavanaugh. Cavanaugh, who had been overseeing the work of Lucas and Fiona, wasn’t happy about the situation, but he strapped on his revolver and agreed. I didn’t know anyone that actually carried a revolver anymore. Sure, it worked, but the number of shots was very limited.

  However, Cavanaugh was a man on the verge of retirement. His hair was grey. Crow’s feet accentuated his eyes. He did have deep smile lines though. My guess was he had grandchildren and loved spending time with them. It was one of the few things that could make a hardened cop smile. Before joining the DOJ as a special investigator, he had been a cop in Los Angeles. That was definitely not a reason to smile.

  “A priest?” Franklin asked as he looked over the file.

  “A priest. How hard can it be?” I confirmed.

  “I thought priests were supposed to be pedophiles, not serial killers.” Green grinned.

  “Most are neither, but they are part of the general human population. Both happen.” I gave him a quick smile in appreciation of his joke.

  It was dusk when we pulled up in front the large, Catholic Church that we had seen earlier in the day. There was a small cottage next door. The cottage and the church were graffiti and vandalism free. The buildings surrounding the church couldn’t say the same. They had missing windows, missing doors, and more spray paint than a hardware store.

  “Are you planning on kicking down his door?” Hunter asked.

  “No, I intend to knock politely. He’s a man of the cloth, even if he is a suspected serial killer,” I snipped at him.

  I had been Catholic once upon a time. My priest had been a kindly gentleman of youngish age. The church I attended had been his first placement and as my father spiraled further into darkness, resenting God, the priest had come to visit with us on a few occasions. His visits always ended with my father ranting about God. However, the priest was convinced that God had a plan and everything led up to that plan, even the bad stuff. Looking back, my childhood had prepared me for the life of a crime fighter. I had to admit, the priest’s arguments currently had the upper hand. It was probably the only reason I still believed in a God of any sort.

  The sign outside the church announced that mass would start in an hour. Lights burned in the cottage and the church. I wasn’t sure which location should be checked first. After another moment or two of indecision, I decided to start at the church. It was Sunday. The churchgoers of this morning had proved that. Surely, a priest would be in the church with only an hour before the next mass started.

  There was a moment of nostalgia as I entered the ornate cathedral. At one time, this had probably been the focal point for Catholicism in Detroit. It retained most of its former glory. The frescos were beautiful. The windows were impressive. The adornments were lavish. It was everything a Catholic church should be.

  “Father Schneider?” I called out, mostly to hear my voice echo through the large room. The ceilings were designed to amplify sound and I wasn’t disappointed. My echo reverberated back to me, filling the silence.

  “May I help you?” A man stepped out into the main chapel. He wore the robes and collar of a priest. He looked older than I had expected. His hair was peppered with grey and white. His skin was sallow from late nights and too much drinking. He might have a handful of vices. He was also white. Serial killers didn’t cross racial lines very often, but the women he supposedly killed were black. The first kernel of doubt crossed my mind.

  “Are you Father Schneider?” I asked.

  “I am,” he answered. “And you are?”

  “My name is US Marshal Aislinn Cain with the Serial Crimes Task Force. I just have a couple of questions to ask you, Father. It shouldn’t take very long,” I told him.

  “Of course, I’m always happy to help.” He pointed to a pew. The rest of the crew sat a few rows back. I sat down next to the priest. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “We’re investigating multiple cases in the area of serial murder. Your name came up when we interviewed some prostitutes. They say that once a week, you pick up a girl and she never returns.” I was blunter than I intended. If he was offended, it didn’t show. Instead, he smiled at me.

  “That’s true,” he told me. “It isn’t quite once a week, but I do pick up girls and try to stop them from returning to a life on the streets. Sometimes, I help them find a rehabilitation facility. Other times, I just try to help them find a home away from this city. I consider it ‘inner-city missionary work’.”

  “I have to ask, are you killing them?”

  “No,” he answered, “but I can see why some would think that. I’ve had a few that returned to the work, but most take my offer and run. Because of confidentiality, I can’t really give you the names of the women I have helped, but I think I can have the Dioceses call you with more information. They help provide the funding as well as relocation services. You might also contact the convent in Lansing and ask for Sister Elizabeth Marie Goerding. She’s assisted me a few times. I know my work isn’t always popu
lar and it isn’t always in the public for scrutiny, but I do what I can with what little I have. I feel for the city and its citizens.”

  “Thank you, Father, we will let you get on with preparations for mass,” I told him.

  “If you ever decide to unburden yourself, Marshal Cain, my door is open. You carry more than most people could imagine,” he said. “Or if you decide to return to your faith, the Church is always here for you.”

  “Thank you again.” I stood up.

  “I’m glad you are here, Marshal Cain. These people need some hope. I think you can provide it.” He smiled at me.

  “Father, I haven’t lost my faith,” I admitted. “It’s just hard to find time for the ritual.”

  “Everyone has that excuse, Marshal Cain,” he answered.

  “Does everyone chase serial killers?” I asked. “I’m here on a Sunday night with a concussion and a knife wound in my back trying to find a way to save Detroit from the evils within it.”

  “Point taken, we all have a calling. This is yours.” Father Schneider stood up. “God will forgive you for the lack of ritual, as long as you keep him in your heart as you do his work.”

  “I will,” I told him as I headed for the door. I wanted to check on his missionary work before it got too late. My team joined me in the SUV. I could have called the convent, but it was only an hour and a half away according to the GPS. We could drive it. I wanted to talk to someone about it, personally. I did call and let them know I was coming.

  We drove silently out of the city. Detroit wasn’t much different from other big cities. It was made up of neighborhoods. Each neighborhood had a distinct personality. The primary difference was that in most of Detroit’s neighborhoods a person had a one in three chance of becoming the victim of a violent crime. The other two in three were probably the perpetrators of said crime. There were entire city blocks closed to traffic because of this high probability of becoming a statistic.

  Unlike most metropolitan areas, Detroit’s bad neighborhoods were stacked on top of one another. In most cities, there were a handful of blocks where a person just didn’t venture, unless there was a good reason. These existed in Detroit, but they weren’t just a handful of blocks, they were roughly sixty of them in concentric rings that got worse the further into it a person went. Outside those sixty blocks, the chances of being the victim of a violent crime lowered to one in five. Still not great odds if you were an average everyday person.

  The result was some of the roughest, toughest neighborhoods in the US. Places even the cops didn’t want to visit. Places where people had abandoned their homes and fled in terror to somewhere safer.

  Charles Deacon

  “I found a girl, just the way you like them,” Chuck said into the phone. “Pretty brunette with large breasts and good hips, but it’ll cost you. This one isn’t from the streets.”

  “How much?” The voice on the other end responded.

  “I don’t know yet. I have another interested party. She’s young. He likes them young,” Chuck answered, baiting his client. He knew Brandon had the most money of the two men. Brandon could easily outbid Nick, but when Nick found out she was a high schooler, he’d scrape together as much as possible. Bidding wars drove up prices. Chuck liked that.

  “How young?” Brandon asked.

  “Seventeen. I picked her up from a school parking lot earlier today,” Chuck answered. “Wait until you see her tonight. Don’t forget to bring cash.” Chuck hung up and gave a small chuckle. He dialed another number.

  “Hello?” Nick answered the private number.

  “Nick,” Chuck’s voice was smooth as silk. “I picked up a beautiful little seventeen year old today on her way to school. Are you interested?”

  “Hell yes, I’m interested. What’s the price?”

  “Well, we have a small problem with the price.” Chuck sighed. “I have another interested party. We’ll have a meet tonight, the usual place, bring cash.”

  “Time?” Nick asked.

  “I’ll text you with it later,” Chuck answered.

  Chuck reclined in his deck chair. The poolroom was one of his favorites. It was always warm and smelled strongly of palms. He’d had them imported from Mexico several years earlier to line one of the walls of the solarium style room. Artificial lights helped them grow during Detroit’s bleak winters.

  It was raining again. The rain beat against the glass roof and walls in a soothing rhythm. He liked the rain. It was the promise of a new beginning. It washed away all the sins of the city. It cleansed the streets of the blood and gore.

  “Hey, baby, whatcha doing?” His wife, Meg, came into the poolroom.

  “Just relaxing before I set to work.” He smiled at his wife of twenty years. She sashayed over to him and plopped into his lap. Her hair smelled of coconut, which went well with the imported palm trees. Even after twenty years, Meg was still as beautiful as the day he had married her.

  “And what are you working on?” Meg teased, wrapping her arm around his neck and leaning in close enough to let him get a look down her shirt.

  “I’m starting my new book today,” Chuck answered. Chuck wrote romance novels for a living. It paid the bills, but the trafficking paid for the lifestyle.

  “Need a little inspiration before you start?” Meg whispered in his ear. Her lips so close they brushed the outer ring as she spoke. Chuck closed his eyes. He could listen to her talk for eternity. He pulled her closer, letting her feel his excitement.

  “Baby, you are all the inspiration I need,” Chuck told her. “But I wouldn’t mind a good romp in the hay to motivate me to write.”

  He picked her up, carried her to the pool and walked into the water with her. Both of them were still fully clothed, but that was easily taken care of. Chuck took his time undressing his wife and she did the same to him. They kissed, touched, and made love in the water.

  When they finished, they sat on the steps, their bodies entwined and mostly submerged in the warmth of each other and the pool. He sighed and kissed her forehead, keeping her close to him.

  “Tonight, I have to meet Nick and Brandon.”

  “Playing ‘Whose Novel is Better’?” Meg asked.

  “Pretty much.” Chuck sighed again. “I’d rather stay home, but they were insistent. Nick has some new idea for a detective series. He wants me to collaborate with the love interest.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll be gone most of the day and evening anyway. I have a function at the Country Club later this morning, then shopping with our daughters, and then I have to meet my mom for drinks. Dad has had another mid-life crisis, so Mom has to have one too.”

  “What did he buy now?”

  “A restaurant,” Meg answered. “So Mom has decided to buy a salon. I am going to try to talk her out of it. I can’t imagine my mom putting in the effort to run a salon. Just because she spends lots of money at them, doesn’t mean she knows how run one.”

  “When I have my mid-life crisis, I’m going to buy a Rolls Royce,” Chuck teased.

  “You may have a Rolls,” Meg smiled at him, “as long as you don’t buy a restaurant or a chimpanzee or run for mayor.” Meg’s family came from money and in the last ten years, her father had done all these things. The chimpanzee had gone crazy and had to be put down. The mayoral election had cost a fortune and he’d lost. Now, he was buying a restaurant and because her mother had to do something equally silly, she had bought a tiger, which caused the chimpanzee to go crazy and had spearheaded the campaign for her husband’s opponent in the mayoral election.

  “I’m sorry, my love, I must go.” Chuck pulled himself out of the pool. He helped Meg out as well and wrapped her in a towel. “You go enjoy your day and wish me luck.”

  “Good luck.” Meg kissed him one last time. “I’ll see you about eleven tonight.”

  “See you then.” Chuck dressed in his room and then went to his office.

  However, the words didn’t come. The girl hidden behind the bookcase preoccupied his mi
nd. He texted Nick and Brandon to tell them to meet him at nine. That would give him time to go to the other house and get the girl ready. If neither of them were willing to meet his price, he’d kill her and dump her in the lake. He was becoming very good at it. It made him wonder if he should try his hand at crime novels.

  But that was Nick’s thing. Nick wrote a detective series. Brandon wrote and illustrated adult comic books with a fantasy theme. He was sure they both got their material from their hobbies.

  Twenty

  Except for the magnetism that caused violent criminals to break into my living quarters and my violent reactions, I could have been a nun. No sex drive meant no temptation to copulate with anyone of any gender. I liked solitude. I wasn’t a huge fan of technology, except video games. I didn’t require name brand clothing and was comfortable in uniforms. I hated dealing with my hair. My issues would have been reading the same book over and over and cleaning. I wasn’t much of a cleaner, and I got bored easily.

  Oh, and nuns walked slowly. I could do slow. Plodding along like a sheep was just fine with me. I knew nuns walked slowly, because Sister Elizabeth Marie was taking ages to meet with me in the vestibule or whatever they called the garden area of a convent.

  I had never been in a monastery or convent. It wasn’t what I had expected. It was nice, to be sure, with arches and fancy columns, but that was it as far as adornments went. The building was brick and forgettable. There were no golden objects or stained glass windows. There were no mosaics or frescos on the walls or floors. It was just a building with more arches than most and some fancy columns attached to said arches.

  A young woman in a habit walked into the garden area. The penguin references weren’t accurate. Penguins had more color in their feathers. Also, while this nun walked slowly, she didn’t waddle. It was hard to gather much information about her as she walked towards us. The outfit kept everything except her face covered. I couldn’t even have told someone her hair color. It was disconcerting not be able to get a description.