The Dream Beings

by Aaron J. French

  Oscar was on the porch, holding the photo album.

  I joined him, clutching my abdomen as cramps racked my lower body. I felt another migraine coming on.

  “You all right?” he said.

  “Not sure. In the house.”

  I unlocked the door and we went in. I flipped the light switch, but for some reason there was no response. I moved to the kitchen, flipping the light there too. Nothing.

  “Huh.”

  “Gotta use your bathroom,” Oscar said.

  A minute or two went by.

  I stood in the afternoon gloom wondering why my lights weren’t working and why my stomach felt like it was going to explode, when Oscar called out my name with a rush of panic.

  I met him down the hall, by the back door, where a pile of glass lay at his feet. He’d drawn his piece. There was a jagged, jester’s-hat-shaped hole in the window above the door knob.

  “You had company,” he said.

  I drew the .38 from my shoulder holster, cocking the hammer.

  Not a second later, a shadowy form darted through the kitchen, leaping the countertop separating the kitchen and living room, followed by a blast of gunfire.

  Two rounds whistled past my head before crashing into the wall, so close I could feel the breeze. I nearly peed myself.

  Oscar shouted something and we both hit the deck like soldiers. A spray of bullets peppered the wall and back door, fresh showers of glass sprinkling us.

  Oscar responded quicker than I did, raising his piece—what sounded like a hefty .45—his shots ramming through the living room, tearing apart walls and furniture.

  I lifted my .38, joining my gunfire to his, issuing my own volley of bullets.

  The figure did what looked like a sideways somersault, fleeing the barrage and bounding past us down the hall toward my bedroom, almost flying.

  “Did you see that?” Oscar said, rising almost like a cat to his feet, crouching and standing at the same time. “He did a freaking acrobatic flip. Ever see crackhead do that?”

  I stood beside him, my gun at the ready. Unconsciously I began moving down the hallway to give pursuit. I went through the contents of my .38’s cylinder, concluding I had maybe two rounds left. I had another cylinder in my holster, but that was it. I’d have to be quick on the reload.

  “That isn’t any crackhead,” I said.

  Oscar’s pudgy, hairless head still resembled a newborn baby’s, yet his old blue eyes shone something fierce. This wasn’t Oscar’s first time seeing action. “I was afraid you would say that,” he grumbled.

  “It’s him,” I said.

  He nodded. Gesturing to the photo album under his arm, he said, “I’m afraid to even set this down.”

  “I wouldn’t.”

  As we proceeded down the hall, I saw him slap an extra clip into his .45. I cursed myself for clinging to this antique .38. Not for the first time, I was witnessing the severe disadvantage it left me at. If I made it through this, I vowed I would make myself finally upgrade.

  We neared the doorway of my bedroom as a half-dozen rounds whizzed through it, making a target pattern on the wall. We stooped, cringing backward a couple steps.

  Another five shots cracked into the wall, releasing puffs of wood and plaster.

  Judging from his rapidity, I suspected he wielded a 9 mm.

  Oscar returned fire, shooting blindly through the doorway. I heard some glass breaking and winced, wondering how I’d afford the repairs when this was over.

  Silence reigned in the bedroom. We waited.

  “What’s cover like in there?” Oscar whispered.

  “Bed, dresser, closet.”

  “Don’t think he’d trap himself in the closet.”

  “No.”

  “Any windows leading outside?”

  “Two. I think you just shot one.”

  “I got an idea. How’s your ammo?”

  I checked the cylinder. My previous assessment had been accurate. “Two left in, and one backup cylinder.”

  “Pop that refill in.”

  I looked at him. Then I did what he said, pocketing the remaining two rounds.

  Four errant shots ripped out of the bedroom into the hallway, causing us to duck. The wall had started to look like cheesecloth.

  “I’ll lay down cover fire,” he said. “You sneak in and pop him.”

  My hands sweated; my heart beat double time. The claw holding my stomach tightened. I knew it was a good plan. So I nodded. Once.

  “Go!” he yelled and started firing. The sound of his .45 was like thunder in the house. I, clutching my .38 to my chest, crab-walked through the hail of bullets, entering the doorway.

  The 9 mm returned fire; for a moment the combined reports were so deafening, my ears ringing so acutely, that I lapsed into a daze. It only lasted a moment, for several bullets whizzed past my ears and the fear of death shocked me awake.

  Screaming like a savage Indian, I pushed away from the door and skittered along by the bed, gaining cover behind the edge of the mattress.

  I peeked around the corner as the gun battle ensued and I saw the shadowy figure standing between the broken window and the closet door. Difficult to get a bead on him. He was definitely Page Johnson’s killer, the man from my dream. A strange band of mist seemed to hover about his head, like a fog cloud with faint, watery shapes and colors inside it. I wasn’t quite sure what I was seeing. I wasn’t sure if he had noticed me. He seemed busy firing at the open door and Oscar beyond it.

  Remembering what Oscar told me, I brought up the .38, tried to steady it on the figure who was no more than ten feet away—and pulled the trigger.

  I was never that accurate with guns. So when my shot went wide, nicking the gunman in the right arm—which he wasn’t even using to shoot with—I didn’t find it that surprising. In fact, I was a little relieved to see I’d actually hit him.

  He spewed a muffled grunt and dropped the weapon to the floor at his side. Clutching his right bicep, blood trickling through his fingertips, he doubled over to pick it back up. That strange band of mist fumed up around him, obscuring him inside a hazy cloud.

  Oscar pumped several .45 rounds into the room, exploding the rest of the window with a crash, but it was clear the mist had obstructed his line of sight.

  One of the bullets struck the gunman above the left shoulder blade. Without warning, he whirled and dove headlong through the nasty, hook-shaped teeth of the broken window and was gone.

  The house sank back into silence.

  “Jack?”

  “I’m all right. He jumped out the window and took off.”

  “Did you get him?”

  “I did, once in the right bicep. Then you clipped his shoulder. I don’t think they’re fatal, though.”

  “Do we have any blood?”

  I peeked around the mattress again, but saw, miraculously, not a single bloodstain. It was like the killer hadn’t even bled, though I swore I’d seen the blood with my own eyes.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Don’t ask me how. Maybe he trailed some through my backyard on his way out.” Something told me he hadn’t, though.

  Oscar appeared clutching his .45, looking a little flushed. I smiled at him and he smiled back.

  “We still have the book, though, right?” I said.

  He holstered his piece then held up the photo album.

  I sighed. “Then we got him.”

  Chapter Eleven

  He studied the bandages to ensure the bleeding had stopped. So far the red stains forming on the white gauze appeared minimal, but he tied an old rag around his right bicep to be safe. It filled him with awe, with reverence, when he thought of how the Dream Beings had transported him out of there so quickly that not even a drop of his blood had been left behind. And that was good: a drop of blood meant a possible police
identification. He couldn’t have that.

  He left the bathroom and went back to his bed. Night darkened the world. He considered turning on a light, but decided against it. There was something comforting about the dark, as if it were a pair of cradling arms.

  They had been here—he had been here—the investigator. The Vessel. With that stocky, bald cop. He had known right away. They’d robbed him even, taking his book of souvenirs. He wasn’t safe in this place anymore. They’d be coming back again soon. It was now up to him to draw this thing to a close.

  He was going to have to lure the Vessel. Only then could he kill him; only then could he flee this wretched city; only then would the Dream Beings let him flee.

  He closed his eyes and concentrated on taking breaths. Before long he was fast asleep. He dreamed…

  Chapter Twelve

  A week later I was drinking Budweiser in my house, attempting to clean up the damage as slowly as possible, when the iPhone rang. I hadn’t spoken to Oscar since the gun battle. I had told him I needed a break. He had too, he said.

  I knew this was him calling.

  My iPhone was on the coffee table next to the old .38. Beside that lay the gorgeous .45 Oscar had let me borrow.

  I hit Send. “Yello?”

  “Hiya, Jack.”

  “Hey, Oscar.”

  “There’s a new development.”

  “Oh?”

  “Kind of an emergency.”

  “It doesn’t involve headless women, does it?”

  It was a joke, but Oscar remained quiet. His reticence sent shock waves into my throat.

  “Is Harpers there?”

  I walked to the front window, recently replaced, and peered through the blinds. The dark-blue, unmarked Crown Vic was parked across the street. The streetlights were on, pouring a lurid glow over the hood. “Yeah, he’s here. Been here all day, actually. I’ll bet he’s eating donuts and jerkin’ it to porn.”

  “That’s what he does best.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Meet me at Shakey’s. There’s been another murder. Tell Harpers to come with you.”

  “Another murder when? Can we go to the crime scene?” My mouth suddenly had a very chalky taste to it.

  “Not this time, Jack. Task force is all over it. Which means we’re all out of it. Lieutenant Graves and Chief Henson want me with you at all times. You’re not to leave my side for a day or two—Henson said the rest of eternity, but I translate that as a couple days. They want to pin you as the suspect, even though there’s no evidence, but I’m holding them off.”

  “Why, goddamn it?”

  “Because your name was at the first crime scene, and you’ve got the reputation of a weird recluse New Ager, and because, well…”

  “Because what?”

  “You helped me get the guy’s photo album, which at this point is our only piece of real evidence.”

  “I do you guys a favor and now you wanna bust me? Heartless.”

  “You know it’s more complicated than that, Jack. Besides, it won’t hold. They want to get a suspect quick, is all, because hot breath flows downhill. The county attorney is breathing down Chief Henson’s neck, Chief Henson is breathing down Lieutenant Graves’s neck, and Graves is breathing down my neck. It’s a giant pressure cooker and only a reliable suspect will release the steam.”

  I was quiet a moment; then I said, “New Ager? I’m a Cubs fan.”

  “Funny, Jack. I’m being serious.”

  I was being serious too. That was the funny part.

  “Photographs of you,” he said, “were scattered about this new crime scene. Strange stuff. Baby pictures, vacation shots from your marriage, even a yearbook photo. He must’ve swiped them while he was in your house.”

  If I’d needed additional impetus to get serious, Oscar had provided it. Keeping the phone to my ear, I walked into the bedroom and peered underneath the bed where I kept my box of photos. The cardboard lid was off, sitting next to it. I slid the box out. My usual organizational piles were rifled through.

  “You still there?”

  “I’m here.” At least I thought I was. Something like hot pins and needles was coursing up and down my body. I’d never experienced a panic attack before, but I thought maybe I was on the verge of one.

  “Some pictures are definitely missing,” I said. I looked about the room. “And who knows what else.”

  “Listen, Jack, I had one of my new guys print out the crime scene shots. I’ll show ’em to you. Get your ass down to Shakey’s. And bring Harpers.”

  “Okay.” I headed for the living room.

  “Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Bring that .45 I lent you.”

  “Will do.”

  “Good. See you soon.”

  I ended the call.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Runnin’ Down a Dream” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers hit me in the face like a wave of heat as Harpers and I entered the bar. The latter was out of uniform, but he still had the staunch air of an officer, and several folks looked up from their beers to wonder what was going on.

  Oscar raised his arm and whistled.

  We made our way among the scattered tables, taking a stool to either side of Oscar. Harpers resembled Frankenstein’s monster in the neon lights, and I had to laugh. In this company I felt like I was sitting with Boris Karloff and Alfred Hitchcock.

  “Glad you find this so funny,” Oscar said.

  “Are you guys getting ready to shoot a horror movie together?”

  The two men glanced at each other, puzzled.

  When Oscar looked back, he said, “I think we’re in a horror movie right now, Jack.” His statement set a sobering tone, and he reached into the flap of his coat to pull out a manila folder, which he handed to me.

  “I’ll take a scotch and soda,” Harpers said to the bartender.

  Oscar frowned at him, hooking his finger at me. “You’re on duty, Detective.”

  Harpers smiled. “Not anymore. He’s your baby now.”

  I opened the folder and immersed myself in the crime scene photos. Again they had been taken with a high-quality digital camera so there wasn’t much left to the imagination; in fact, they appeared so lifelike I almost got queasy. I lit a cigarette to calm my nerves.

  This time the woman was outside, lying in some grass. In a couple I thought I glimpsed a strip of blacktop, leading me to believe this was either out on the highway or perhaps by a dirt lot somewhere. She was on her side, completely nude, skin covered in flower-shaped bruises. Lengths of rope—thick, frayed stuff that reminded me of mooring lines and rigging—had been lashed around her hands and ankles. My stolen photographs were scattered all over the grass, and some had been arranged into circles and star shapes; others, at least three, had been placed delicately upon her body.

  When I got to the missing-head images—the hacked bloody stump sprouting a splintered bone and bunches of severed veins, with blood puddles soaking the surrounding grass—I almost lost my lunch.

  “Did they find the head?” I said, flipping through the last of the photos, but not finding it.

  “Missing in action,” Oscar replied.

  I grunted. That struck me as an odd development. Going back to the crime scene photos, I came across several displaying my photographs close up. Me as a baby, sitting in my highchair, blowing out birthday candles, opening up Christmas presents. A black-and-white college yearbook photo that I had cut out for one reason or another.

  There were some photos of Jean, showing us posing in front of this national monument or that, dining at restaurants, camping, or just lying in bed in a hotel room; all were taken during our marriage.

  I felt a stab of pain as I looked at these photos. I barely thought of Jean anymore, but seeing her face always threatened to dredge up a world of
sorrow and regret I had tried so diligently to put behind me. Seven-year marriage that just went up in smoke. It wasn’t something you displayed on your wall like an academic title. It was more like a dirty, silent secret—the knowledge you had ultimately failed. I suddenly found myself wondering what Jean was doing right at that moment.

  “What do you think?” Oscar asked.

  I looked up, emerging from that quiet inner darkness into which the photos had plunged me. The glare of the neons felt like a blinding-hot sun, and the loud music thrummed in my ears, seemingly louder than my own voice when I said, “Did you find another message with my name attached to it?”

  Oscar shook his head. “Just the photos this time. What do you make of it?”

  I almost answered but suddenly my eyes flicked to Harpers and stayed there. I tipped my chin at him. Oscar, momentarily befuddled, turned around on his stool.

  Harpers looked at us. “What?”

  I feared maybe Oscar hadn’t understood the message in my pantomiming, but he glanced farther down the bar, toward a middle-aged, semi-attractive brunette sitting alone at the opposite end, smoking a cigarette.

  “You know,” Oscar said. “If you’re not on duty anymore, Harpers, why not go over there and buy that nice gal a drink?”

  Harpers swung his big, flat head around, glanced at her, then swung back and said, “What if I don’t wanna?”

  Oscar fished a twenty out of his wallet and slid it across the bar top. “I insist, Detective.”

  Harpers swiped the bill without another word, got up and headed down the bar—but not before casting a dark, emotional glance in my direction.

  Oscar seemed tense, but highly motivated. “Go,” he said.

  I took a deep breath. “I’ve been dreaming,” I said.

  “Yeah? About our guy?”

  I nodded.

  “Tell me.”

  “Sometimes I’m lying in the grave—you know, that recurring dream I told you about? And he’s there looking down at me, standing with a bunch of his alien buddies.”

  “Alien buddies?”

  “Whatever they are. The transdimensional beings I mentioned. The dark ones.”