IN YOUR DREAMS (Mark Appleton #3)

by Patterson, Aaron

  “I woke up and I was staring at myself being killed by this monster. A man, but a beast. When I killed him… er… it, well, it turned into a dark vapor and went into this stone.”

  Solomon looked at the stone with renewed interest. “You saw yourself die? So where is… the other you?”

  “Kreios took my body before Maria could see it. It would have been too much for her.”

  “Kreios?”

  “Oh… uh… never mind. He’s a friend, but not like us. He’s the one helping me to try to figure this out. I know how it sounds, but I need help. You’re dead in my world, Solomon, and K and Sam are alive, and Maria’s just a secretary at my old job. You see what’s going on? This is crazy, but I can’t stop it—I stood there and saw me—I saw myself die, and it was real.”

  Solomon put a hand on my shoulder. “It is okay, we will figure this out. This would explain why you don’t show up on any of our scans. It is as if you are not real, at least not in this world.”

  I remembered what Kreios said. “Kreios said something about a key world. He said that if I stay here too long, this would become the key world… does that mean anything to you?”

  Solomon seemed to think and nodded. “Well… if what you say is accurate, this world as you say is or has been created by you. We did not exist, but once you dreamed it, we became. Now that you are here, and especially now that your other self is dead, this could become the key, or the center, world.”

  “What does that mean for K and Sam? What happens to me on the other side?”

  Solomon shook his head and massaged his temples. “I am not sure… I need to get you back to the Merc building and run some tests. I think the others will just keep going on as if nothing happened… live their lives and your awareness would just be here instead of there.”

  I shook my head and knew that choosing was no longer a matter of what I wanted but what was right. K was my wife, she was first, and she did not die, not for real. My tongue felt dry, and I had a bad headache. This was not natural… this kind of thing was not supposed to even be possible.

  My left arm tingled, and I could hear something far away. It seemed as if someone were singing in my ear… It was not anything more than a whisper, as if someone were trying to break past the walls of this reality and reach out to me. Suddenly, I felt alone. How could one man deal with all this? I had no one, and yet everyone.

  “Mark… Mark, look at your hands…” Solomon sounded frantic, I looked down to my hands, and they were transparent. I could feel my heart beat up into my head, and the pounding made my head feel like it was going to explode.

  Solomon pulled me away from my house and half-dragged, half-carried me around the back of the house across the street. Mrs. Combs lived there with her husband. How did I know that?

  “Listen to me, Mark.” Solomon had me on the ground, and I could barely make out his face. The world was dissolving, as if in any second, it would cease to exist.

  “You have to stop this, Mark, find out how to stop this and…” His voice trailed off, and I saw that it was not me that was disappearing but him.

  At that moment, time stood still, or so it seemed. I watched as Solomon broke apart into puzzle size pieces and the side of the two story house crumbled and hung in the air as if gravity were just a theory. The tree in the back yard scattered, and I saw that the pieces of everything turning in a circle—swirling like a tornado, and they were picking up speed.

  The house, lawn, trees, Solomon, the garden hose, and the little garden gnome all mixed into one mass of color and the pieces clinked together, sounding like metal… as if someone just dropped a pocket full of coins.

  My hands were gone now, and I saw that my assumption that the world was disappearing was now 100 percent true. I was going, too. White light filled the center of the twisting circle, and I looked over my shoulder. The ground was gone, and all around me, the entire street was moving in a dance. I closed my eyes, not wanting to see Maria, or what was left of her. The only thing I realized later was that no one seemed to be in pain. It was all dry—no guts or blood, just dry pieces of metal were frozen as if they just stopped, as if someone had pulled the plug to a video game.

  I smashed my eyes shut, and even though I did, the hot, white light seemed to be on the inside of my eyes. I didn’t want to see anymore, I didn’t want this life anymore. I prayed that I would wake up, that I would end up back home. But where was home? Did I even have a home anymore? I was lost.

  ***

  Kirk hurt. He tested his bonds, but he knew from experience that he was not going to get out. I should teach a class. “How to Get Kidnapped: The surefire way to get into trouble,” by Kirk Weston.

  He pulled anyway. The cables just gave him enough room to move a little but not enough to scratch his nose, which itched like a mother.

  Kirk wondered what time it was, and what day it was. He didn’t know how long he was out, but the man in the mask was gone, and the empty room was still hot as a sauna and quiet. He blinked and tried to focus, and he discovered that he was hanging. Five feet off the ground. His arms were stretched out their full length, and his legs were stretched in the same manner. He tried to curl his arms, but all it did was give him a cramp. This contraption was crazy. What kind of nut job thought of this crap?

  Kirk licked his dry lips. Small noises felt amplified in his head as if his eardrums had been stripped raw. It was the sound of sandpaper on wood. He turned his head. He tried to look behind him, but all he saw was the tail end of a metal table. Strapped to the table were two beautiful feet.

  “Isis!” Kirk croaked out her name, and that hurt even more. It felt like the back of his throat was bleeding. “Isis… Isis… are you okay?”

  No response.

  Twisting as far as he could, Kirk strained his neck. He saw to her shin but could not see any more. He knew it was Isis; the color of her skin, it was a mix of coffee and milk. He watched as long as he could hold the uncomfortable pose to see if she moved. Even a twitch, something to let him know that she was alive. He could feel hot tears creep up into his eyes but he forced them down.

  He wouldn’t cry. He was a man, and this was not the time to become all emotional. Come on, buddy, you’re a jerk and a no good cop from Detroit. You eat fear for breakfast and drink lead for dessert!

  Sweat dripped down his back, and off the tip of his nose. He smiled and tugged on his wrist straps. The sweat made them slick. He pulled and thought he might just be able to break free, but the strap holding his wrists and ankles were padded, and the padding soaked up the sweat. Useless.

  Kirk cursed and started kicking and screaming even though it made his throat burn. After a moment, he gave up and sucked in the hot air, already exhausted. Think, detective, don’t get mad but think. You’re a pro, you are the best cop that ever walked the streets. This is some psycho, some skinny runt that thinks he can mess with…

  Kirk focused on the room. It was about ten feet across and twelve or fifteen feet deep. Plaster walls, old and stained. A warehouse, maybe? A big metal door stood at the far end, and it, too, was covered with rust and grime. The floor was concrete, and equipment littered the ground. Tall, metal, storage racks were stacked up against the walls.

  The parts seemed to be engine pieces… but big. Maybe from big rigs or a train. A train—that had to be it—they were in an old train warehouse. He saw a thick extension cord running from under the door and past him to the table where Isis was. He looked up and saw the hanging light with a single bulb, not a small one, but the big kind that hummed and took forever to turn on.

  Okay, this might work. Got parts, maybe something to use for a weapon, but first he had to get free. Kirk looked for the camera. There had to be a camera. He located it high up above the door. It was staring right at him with a little red light glowing ominously.

  An unexpected sound about gave Kirk a heart attack. Isis coughed and wriggled as she awoke. Kirk called out and twisted again, trying to see her. “Isis! Are you there? Ta
lk to me…”

  He could hear her moving and groaning, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe he had her gagged, maybe he cut her tongue out. The thought of someone else touching her enraged Kirk.

  “Isis!” Kirk screamed, and the sound reminded him of someone who had lost everything and didn’t have anything to hide. He had no more pride, no self respect, no selfish desires. All he wanted was for her to live… and to kill the skinny little creep who had hurt her.

  Isis spoke in a harsh voice, low and strained. “I’m okay… just got a killer headache, but okay.” Kirk breathed in and let out a long sigh.

  “Thank God.”

  “What about you?” Her voice sounded better this time.

  “Oh, great, just hanging out.”

  Isis managed a small laugh. “I see that.”

  “How are you feeling? The antidote… I got it for you, I found it!”

  Three seconds passed, and she answered. “Great. I feel good, come to think about it. Thank you, Kirk.”

  The sound of a bolt unlocking brought Kirk’s head around, and a masked man entered the room. It was the skinny little cuss Kirk was going to kill. “We are awake… Good, now we can have a little chat.”

  CHAPTER 25

  OH MAN, THIS WAS the best feeling ever. Beyond the high of breaking into a so-called secure website or controlling the transportation department’s payroll, this was better… like holding a magnifying glass over a helpless ant. Only this ant was not helpless, and that made it so much moare fulfilling.

  Mooch didn’t think the annoying, backstabbing detective knew who he was, and the reveal would be amazing. He would wait for the perfect time and bam! The look on Kirk Weston’s face would be epic.

  “You’ve been hanging out with the wrong crowd, hacking into the wrong networks, and killing the wrong people.”

  Kirk searched his mask, and a look of confusion crossed his face. This was even better then he imagined.

  “Listen…” Kirk said. The guy was going to try to reason with him. Really, after betraying him, after treating him like a used up convict, he dared to talk him down?! “I don’t know what you want, but we can talk this out. Just leave the woman alone, you can have me, but please let her go. She has nothing to do with this.” His voice was ragged, and guttural.

  “I can have you? I already have you, and you have made your first mistake, Mr. Weston. You let your feelings overrun your reasoning. You just let me know that you care for her…” Mooch pointed toward Isis. “More than yourself… interesting, I didn’t think it was possible.”

  So this was the one who took his place, the one who was able to break Kirk Weston. Isis somehow got through his thick skull, and down into his black heart.

  Mooch waited for Kirk to protest, but he did nothing. Just like him, he let the chips fall where they would, but he would do whatever it took to keep himself alive. He was like a rat, he would claw and drown anyone or anything in his path just to keep his own head above water.

  “What do you want? Money?”

  “Money cannot buy happiness.”

  “I can get you whatever you want. Just tell me.”

  “What I want, I can’t have. What I want is gone, never to be replaced, and there is nothing you can do or say to fix this little pickle you’re in. Just accept your fate and the fate of your girlfriend!” Mooch spit out the word girlfriend remembering his girlfriend, the one Kirk killed—the one he turned against him.

  Isis held her head up off the table and was watching him with sharp black eyes. He was worried about her, not that he would let on that she scared him. But she was a killer in every sense of the word, and that made him nervous.

  Mooch walked toward her, and on his way grabbed the edge of a small, rolling metal table. Placed on top were different tools, pliers, and screwdrivers in various sizes. Kirk cursed and yelled at him, trying to twist to see what was going on.

  “What are you doing? Leave her alone. If you touch her, I will kill you!”

  “Too late,” Mooch muttered under his breath, “you already did.”

  ***

  Funny the things I remembered at the oddest times in my life. I watched a very real world break apart right in front of my eyes, and all I could see and hear was the sound of metal. It was as if little pieces of glass and steel were bumping into each other and the sound brought up a past memory that I was not sure was mine or one implanted into my head as a child.

  I was eight or nine and stood in the woods holding a rifle. It was a .22, and I was hunting with my dad. I could not bring up his face, and to this day I do not remember what he looked like, just the sound of his voice.

  I was alone, told to stay put and watch. If I saw a deer, I was to shoot. I wondered if he really thought I could kill a large deer with such a small weapon, but he taught me to shoot, and I knew that I would aim for the deer’s eye.

  The smell of wet pine trees filled my nose, and the cold air made my breath hang in front of my face looking like a small cloud. Time seemed to be a distant memory here, as if, in the woods, the clock did not tick, and the hands stopped their rotation. I could feel my father’s presence somewhere behind me but didn’t see him.

  I shifted the rifle from my right arm to my left. I checked the chamber, and that same metal-on-metal sound filled the silence. A squirrel scrambled up the side of a tree, and his nails gripping the bark sounded like Velcro ripping. He saw me and squalled in protest.

  I glanced up at him and listened to the leaves as they fell down like light snowflakes. They landed without a sound, and I took a long deep lungful of the wooded air. The incessant squirrel would not let up, and I knew that in this wood, he was the alarm bell, the one who warned the others who lived there of an intruder. I swung my rifle around without a thought, and squeezed the trigger. A quiet pop sent him to his death, and he landed in a bed of fresh leaves. That hushed his warnings.

  I didn’t worry about the shot scaring any deer. It was hunting season, and the sounds of gunfire were all around, in and out of the draws and valleys, making popcorn noises. My .22 was very quiet and would go unnoticed.

  I could now strongly smell the urine of a deer, or maybe an elk. It came up the valley and wafted across my face, and I turned from the hiding spot in which I was crouched down, waiting and watching. I spotted a large whitetail standing at attention not fifty yards from me. Between him and I was a large thicket of scrub brush, or what we called “buckbrush.” He did not see me, but the shot at the squirrel must have brought him up and out of his bed.

  Bringing up the rifle with the care of a surgeon, I looked through the scope and waited, letting my breathing calm to a slow, in and out motion. The buck had a nice rack, but I didn’t care; I was here for my dad, I was here for the kill. Something about the hunt filled me with something I could not put into words. It was him and me. No longer would the squall of a mad squirrel or the snap of a branch keep me from winning this battle of wits. My dad said it was fair this way. If I missed, the prey would escape; if I didn’t make the perfect shot, I would lose and the deer would grow in wisdom for the next time.

  The quiet and the natural sounds of the woods calmed the deer after a full ten minutes. I held firm even through my arms were aching and my back hurt down low. I did not let my brain command my body to move for I knew if it did, I would go home empty-handed.

  The buck had a thick coat of tan, and a clean white belly and neck. He stood with ears up. He sniffed the air, and his left ear flicked. He took a step forward, and I waited. I had to see his eye, to have a second to make the shot, but up until now, a thicket had been blurring most of his body and head.

  The buck put his head down, most likely smelling his own scent. He had forgotten the pop of the rifle. Must have chalked it up to his imagination. He would not be making that mistake again, or any other.

  The buck took three more steps from the cover of the buckbrush, and his head came into clear view. I closed one eye and placed the crosshairs a quarter-inch above his right eye. I s
queezed the trigger, and a .22 bullet tore free. Before the sound reached the buck’s brain, the bullet was mangling its way through, tearing skin and forcing the bone and brain matter to collide. The bullet smashed and spread as it hit the other side of the buck’s skull. It exited with a spray of blood and brain.

  I pulled another shot off so fast that the sound from a distance would make any hunter swear he only heard one shot. The second bullet I placed an inch to the left of the first. I did not want to chance the deer running and making more work for me and my dad as we tracked a mindless deer through the woods.

  The second shot did not kill the buck—it was dead on its feet already—but it didn’t hurt to make sure. I waited with gun still ready, looking through the scope, waiting for the buck to fall. It did. Legs buckled, and it jerked its head up as if that would help to clear its vision. The buck fell and made a loud, deep thud as it hit the earth. I stood up and walked to the deer, looking to my left and to the right for any sign of other hunters. In these woods, if I moved without hunter orange I might get shot if a half-drunk hunter mistook me for deer. Dad said it was better to be invisible then to be seen.

  The buck twitched its leg, and after a few minutes, it fell silent. I felt a sort of pride knowing that I killed this huge beast with a little .22. I was underage, and it wasn’t legal to use this small of a gun hunting deer anyway, but dad was weird about that way. He figured he was an adult and could decide for himself. Besides, he said the only reason they didn’t allow such a small caliber weapon was because most people couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn, so the bigger the better…

  ***

  I opened my eyes, still smelling the gunpowder and the fresh clean mountain air in my lungs to find that it was morning. I was in my own bed, and somehow K was next to me. I turned over to see her form under a thin satin sheet and watched her deep breathing. Her back was to me, and her blonde curls lay across her shoulders and fell on her pillow, transforming into a halo. I felt burning tears fill my eyes, and I let them fall down my cheeks. How could I ever even think of leaving her, even in my dreams?