The Dream Beings

by Aaron J. French

  “Such as with me, for instance. It’s about being open to receiving their transmissions. Typically you’re born open, but later we close ourselves off. Think of me as a walking radio antenna who was born with the specific radio stations of these higher beings programmed in me. Most people—nearly all of them, really—are blocked from getting these signal. Alas, I, for better or for worse, was born without the mental blockage.”

  Oscar looked at me strangely.

  “Does that answer your question? Does it make sense?”

  He cleared his throat, eyes recovering some of their alertness. “Yeah. Makes sense. But I’m kind of sorry I asked. Where’d you learn all this, for crying out loud? You sound like some cockamamie quantum physics professor or something.”

  I laughed as I stamped out my cigarette. “Hardly. I picked up most of this stuff from Mom, but it also came with my experiences. One is either up for the unknown or afraid of it. What’s it gonna be for you, Oscar?”

  “Can I get back to you?”

  “Very funny.”

  “I told you I was up for it. It’s just crazy stuff, Jack. Crazy stuff…”

  “I know. But you get used to it. How about we talk about the case now?”

  I saw the usual enthusiasm and self-control reenter his face. Detective work was what he understood. He felt comfortable, even powerful, discussing it. Not like my alien mumbo jumbo.

  “Let’s talk,” he said. “Did you read the case notes I gave you and look at the pictures?”

  “I did. And then I had a dream. I know what this guy looks like, Oscar. I even know where he lives.”

  Oscar gave me stunned. “How do you know where he lives?”

  “I saw his house in my dream.”

  He grinned. “Did your more highly developed friends assist with that?”

  “I received a signal,” I said, ignoring his remark. “I sent out a call for help, and I got back an answer. Simple as that.”

  “Do you got an address? ’Cause I tell yah, Jack. Over at the station we got nothing. A bunch of stressed-out detectives and one pissed-off lieutenant.”

  “I don’t have an address,” I said. “But I recognized the neighborhood. It’s not far from my house, actually. If we drive around a while, I’m sure I’ll spot it.”

  “Then what the hell are we waiting for?” He grabbed his keys off the table and stood up.

  “Take it you don’t mind if we go in your car?” I said.

  “Not a bit.”

  I followed him across the parking lot, lighting another cigarette as I went, and got into the passenger seat of his unmarked Ford Crown Victoria. We sped out of the shopping complex at almost fifty, tires screeching as we turned onto the main road.

  Chapter Eight

  He dressed: long black pants, tight-fitting T-shirt beneath a striped cotton jacket, and combat boots. He went into the bathroom, brushed his black hair, even inspected his face in the glass, popping a pimple or two. Then he grabbed the 9 mm from under his bed, tucking it in the waistline of his pants. He stepped out into the bright summer day.

  He knew exactly where to go. The Dream Beings had instructed him, had given him a detailed image of the PI’s home—the home of the man they referred to as the Vessel. They’d even shown him the cross streets and given him the address. It wasn’t far. A quick hop on the bus would get him there.

  He walked past the other run-down houses on his block. Some had cars parked on front lawns. Some had chain-link fences and noisy dogs. A few had people chattering on the porches, gesturing emphatically, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact, and eventually reached the bus stop on the corner, deserted, save a dozing homeless man.

  He sat and waited, closing his eyes to imagine himself on a beach somewhere—any other place than here—sunlight and sand, palm trees and bronze bodies, women of all shapes and sizes, wearing nothing but dental-floss bikinis. He had just dragged one of those girls into some bushes to gut her from neck to navel when the bus arrived.

  He rode for only five or ten minutes before pressing the button to get off. A moment later he stood before the PI’s house.

  The yard was nice, but obviously hadn’t been looked after for some time, and the trees and grass were overgrown. It was surrounded by a waist-high chain-link fence, which came together at the center, attached to the hinges of a gate. The address, which the Dream Beings had revealed to him, was on the mailbox. No car in the driveway.

  He went through the gate and up the stone pathway to the house. The door was locked, so he went around to the backyard where he found more overgrown foliage and an unused basketball hoop. The back door too was locked. He removed his jacket, wrapped a rock inside it and busted the window beside the doorknob. He reached inside, unlocked the door, put his jacket back on and entered.

  Drawing his 9 mm, he chambered a round. He stood in the silence, waiting for the PI to come around the corner. He paused. The PI didn’t come. He knew the PI had a gun of his own, perhaps several guns.

  It was possible he’d seen him coming up the front pathway and was hiding in the shadows to shoot him. No problem. He’d soon be found. There was also the chance that he wasn’t home.

  He checked the house thoroughly, even under the bed, in the closets, behind the shower curtain. Nothing. Apparently the PI was gone, trying to figure out why the hell his name had been written in blood on a dead woman’s bathroom wall. He chuckled, recalling the moment when he had killed her. How blessed that was.

  He took off his jacket and sat in an armchair in the living room. Stagnant gloom settled over him. He was prepared to wait all day, if necessary.

  Chapter Nine

  “How ’bout that one?” Oscar said, indicating another run-down house. He’d pointed out nearly a dozen by now.

  “That’s not it either,” I said.

  “You sure you’re able to find it?” Hopeless irritation, which I ignored, colored his voice.

  “Pretty sure,” I said.

  We slumped into silence, Oscar driving, cruising through ghetto streets in the unmarked Crown Vic. The people who lived in these neighborhoods weren’t stupid. I should know; I lived in one. They recognized a cop car when they saw one, visibar lights or not—besides the fact that we were cruising at thirty miles per hour. Everyone we passed regarded us suspiciously. A few younger kids even scattered like roaches, jumping over fences.

  “Lousy hooligans,” Oscar muttered. “Thugs.”

  An hour later, right when we were discussing whether or not to give the whole thing up, I spotted it.

  “There,” I said, pointing.

  Oscar peered through the windshield and nodded, pulling the Crown Vic alongside the curb several houses down. We got out.

  The air was crisp, smelling faintly of cooked meat. Someone was having a barbeque down the block. Music from a mariachi band lifted itself over the rooftops on a sudden gust of wind.

  “Now we knock on the door and say, ‘Hi, we psychically know that you’re a killer, so would you please come with us’?”

  I chuckled. “Something like that.”

  I lifted the right flap of my jacket and undid the safety snap on my holster, in case I needed to get at my .38 in a hurry. This prompted Oscar to do the same. All systems ready, we headed for the house.

  A jungle of decayed willow trees and wildly sprouting bushes comprised the yard. A river of junk and old trash spilled directly through its center, terminating at two large piles of refuse at either end: an overturned Coleman grill, a dirty patio table and three dirtier patio chairs, a wooden planter box with nothing but sand growing in it.

  We hurdled the low stone wall surrounding the property, and Oscar said, “Place gives me the friggin’ creeps. Looks abandoned.”

  “I doubt the guy who lives here actually lives here, if you know what I mean.”

 
“Like it’s a front?”

  “No. Like he probably lives mostly in his own head.”

  Oscar didn’t say anything. We came to the front of the house, a mess of peeling yellow paint with windows dirtied to opaqueness, and Oscar stooped to peer in. He looked back at me and shrugged. “He probably ain’t even here.”

  “Then we break in.”

  He straightened, looking stern. “We don’t have probable cause, Jack. What do you say we knock instead.”

  He crossed the barren cement front porch and rapped his knuckles thrice against the door. Waited. Nothing. Tried again. Still nothing. Then he tried the handle, but it was locked.

  I drew my .38, spun the cylinder and walked up behind Oscar, slamming the butt against the small window set into the upper half of the door. The shatter of glass rang out. Shards tinkled to the floor.

  “Jesus Christ, are you fucking crazy?” Oscar let out a hissing whisper of breath. His face had gone bright red. He looked like a grape about to burst.

  “As a matter of fact, I am,” I said as I reached through the window to unlock the door.

  Oscar grabbed my arm when I attempted to enter, spinning me toward him. His strength and speed were a surprise. He impressed me, given his age and size. He looked me dead in the face.

  “See here, Jack,” he said. “I don’t care if you’re in touch with some higher race of beings. When we do things out in the world—out in my world—and especially if we do them together, then we do them my way, got it? I want you to consult me before making a move. And that’s an order. I’m about to make lieutenant. I can’t have dirt on my hands. Chief would kill me anyway if he knew I used you on this.”

  I saw he was serious, so I nodded. “All right, Oscar.” I patted him on the shoulder. I had no desire to get the poor guy in trouble. I was simply a bloodhound tracking the scent.

  He released me, and after heaving a sigh, he glanced through the open door into the dark house.

  “Well it’s fucking open now,” he said. “Might as well go in.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  We entered, guns drawn.

  There was such a quiet stillness about the place that not even a stirring bug was heard. The killer was certainly not home. However it was obvious that he—or someone—had just left. The smell of body odor clung to the air, and when we looked into the bathroom, we saw water drops on the scummy tile floor. The bed appeared slept in—grotesque as that seemed, based on the amount of filth covering the mattress. Several piles of clothes lay scattered about as if someone had recently gotten dressed.

  We inspected each room, a total of five, and checked inside the closets. It was a small house, two or three hundred square feet. The floors, walls and surfaces were incredibly dirty. Everything lay in disarray. The only patch of cleanliness was centered around the bookshelf in the bedroom.

  The books, many in foreign languages, dealt with esoteric topics—known collectively as the Mysteries—with which I was already largely familiar, thanks to my mom. They were stacked in orderly rows along the shelves, dusted and painstakingly alphabetized. This guy, if nothing else, was a bibliophile.

  “He ain’t here,” Oscar said.

  “No, he ain’t. What do you wanna do?”

  “It’d be illegal to search without a warrant.”

  “Yeah, but we’ve already broken in.”

  “Yeah…” He sighed, thought a moment, scratched his bald head. “How ’bout if we search a little, and very carefully, so we don’t give ourselves away. And if we don’t find anything soon, we hightail it outa here and come back with a warrant.”

  I had to laugh. “All right, Detective. You’re runnin’ the show.”

  “This place gives me the creeps.”

  “What do we do if Mr. Killer shows up while we’re searching only a little?”

  “If he’s armed, we fire at him, of course. If not…we just play it by ear.”

  He turned and headed toward the living room, where box upon box sat heaped into big piles, overflowing with trash, paper and seemingly discarded old books. “I got in here. You check out the bedroom,” he called over his shoulder.

  “Roger.”

  I went back into the bedroom, passing by the bathroom, and stood among the piles of clothes. I dug in the rubbish, careful not to disturb anything too much, putting it all back as I found it. I sifted through all sorts of bizarre junk: martial arts books, boxing gloves, pamphlets touting the end of a global economy, fast food and pizza coupons, survival books (one entitled How to Live With Bears), a few porno magazines, what looked like natal astrological charts without names on them, even a stack of old baseball cards.

  Despite all the creepiness, nothing suggested a murderer. So I closed my eyes and told my soul to be still. I listened. And I waited.

  “Find anything?” I heard Oscar call. I ignored him, focusing on the picture rising up from deep within my being, the answer to the question I had asked, a request to be guided. Even before the picture had materialized, I was being led to the bookcase standing next to the wall.

  I reached out and maneuvered the bookcase away, and suddenly the image came to me: a large black photo album snuggled between two pieces of wood.

  And there was the picture album I’d seen in my head, tucked behind the bookcase. I retrieved it and carefully pushed the bookcase back in place.

  “Oscar?” I shouted, heading for the living room.

  “Find something?” He was on his knees, digging through a cardboard box.

  I held up the photo album. “Pictures,” I said. “Hidden behind the bookcase.”

  “Anything good?” He struggled to his feet, knee joints popping.

  “Haven’t looked, but I was given a mental signal just before I found it. That usually means it’s important.”

  I moved to a patch of sunlight beaming through the kitchen. Motes of dust swirled within it. Oscar followed. I was momentarily appalled as I glanced toward the sink and saw the big heap of dirty dishes swarming with fruit flies.

  “Open it,” Oscar said.

  I lifted the flap, revealing the thick, shiny page covered in plastic. A single Polaroid was set in the center, plastic laid over it. Old edges wearing yellow. I guessed about 1980s or 90s.

  “Ain’t seen one of those in a while,” Oscar said. He was quiet when he realized what the picture showed: a dead woman, naked, lying in some tawny weeds, with a large knife—way too large, like a goddam harpoon—sticking out of her lower back. Beneath the photo was written a single word: Beth.

  Oscar whistled through his teeth. “I’ll be damned, Jackie. Looks like you got something.”

  I nodded, but wasn’t yet able to speak. I flipped the page and there was another Polaroid showing another dead woman, this one lying on some faded carpet, lying on her back, stomach slashed open, intestines spilling out: Margaret.

  “Christ Almighty,” Oscar muttered.

  I flipped the page again. The next photo showed a woman tied to a chair with electrical wire, a bloodstained plastic bag over her head, naked, legs splayed. Underneath was the word Anonymous.

  I continued turning, each page displaying its single Polaroid and its dead woman, either her name or anonymous written underneath—including one that said Page and showed the woman decapitated in her bed.

  On the final page was a different Polaroid showing not a dead woman, but a very alive male figure. I was shocked. I could hardly believe my eyes.

  “Holy shit, Jack. That’s you.”

  Beneath the photo it said, simply, The Investigator. I was standing in a parking lot beside some lush green trees. I was wearing a suit, which was strange because I never wore suits. After a moment, though, I remembered the day he took it, and my blood suddenly went cold.

  “The funeral,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s why I got tha
t suit on. I was at Madison Oaks Cemetery watching my Aunt Sylvia being lowered into the ground.”

  “When?”

  I shrugged. “Month ago maybe.”

  Oscar gently lifted the album out of my hands, closed it. “It’s definitely our guy,” he said. “Any idea why he’s taken an interest in you?”

  I shook my head. “Haven’t the foggiest. He’s in my dreams. Gotta mean something.”

  Oscar tucked the album under his arm. “You know, this is all the evidence we would need to convict this guy. Too bad we can’t keep it.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “How the hell do we explain getting our hands on it?”

  “We make up a story. We lie.”

  “Did I mention I’m about to be promoted?”

  “Listen, Oscar. Our fingerprints are already all over this thing. If we did wait, and you did somehow gain possession of it legally, you’d still have yours and my fingerprints to explain. Talk about ugly.”

  He was frowning, the decision weighing upon him. I decided to offer one additional piece of persuasion.

  “I think this guy wants to kill me, Oscar.”

  He seemed to want to question or debate, but just listened.

  “That adds a whole other level of pressure and importance for me, if you catch my drift.”

  He nodded. Then, very reluctantly, very slowly, he handed me the album. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Thanks, Oscar.”

  We headed back to the car, and as we drove away, I watched the dirty old house receding in the rearview. I had a very bad feeling in my stomach.

  Chapter Ten

  We got lunch at Burger King, eating as we drove. Oscar took me by Starbucks to retrieve my Chevy pickup and we drove separately, arriving at my house by four. The second I pulled into my driveway the bad feeling in my stomach ballooned.