“Because everyone else freaking left. That’s why.”
“Wait. What? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Nope. Last night after we didn’t find anything, they all left, acted like they were going back to their hotels. When no one showed up this morning, I tried calling them all. No answer except for Obadiah and Makir. I called the hotel, and they’d already checked out.”
“Unbelievable. What did Obadiah and Makir say?”
“Obadiah had a target, and Makir said there is a huge case she’s been working on. A lead came up, and she couldn’t justify being gone any longer. She at least called before she left. She made a good point. It’s not like I needed any of them here anymore.”
Malcolm punched the steering wheel, not seeing the road, driving on auto-pilot, following the navigation to the Rapa Nui National Park. “That’s not the point, and you know it. They should’ve stayed for moral support. Or at the very least, they should’ve told you before they left and said goodbye.”
A sigh from the other end of the line. “Doesn’t matter now. Are you almost there?”
“Yes, I’m about to pass the quarry. It’s another three miles past this.” The quarry loomed ahead, featuring at least four hundred of the island’s famous Moais—the statues shaped in the forms of a head and torso, some standing at least thirteen feet and weighing four tons. Some were covered in a thick layer of moss, all in various stages of completion. It had always impressed Malcolm that these giants were made in the quarry and transported all over the island. Only around eight hundred remained now, decaying and disintegrating, losing their shapes as time claimed more victims. Perhaps he would contribute to the restoration of these gentle giants.
Stephanie sighed, long and heavy. “All right. I’m going to…it…done in three minutes. Let…know when…arrives.” At least that’s what he thought she said as her voice slipped in and out of reception.
“Will do,” he answered.
The phone disconnected. Whether because she hung up or the call had dropped, he wasn’t sure. Regardless, he slipped the phone into his pocket, astonished that his battery was down to twenty percent. He’d have to grab the charger still nestled in his suitcase instead of his pocket. Caelieus would need a change of clothes and identification, and he’d brought him spare clothes and aliases since Malcolm had no idea if his friend had a secret stash near his regeneration spot like he did. The camera rested in the back seat and could be rigged up if his fellow dream thief decided to make the switch to female during this regeneration. As promised, he made it to the general location in three minutes. He checked his phone again. No signal. Stephanie should be going ahead with the regeneration.
Stepping out of the car in the early morning sunshine, Malcolm closed his eyes and lifted his head to the sun. His internal alarm blared out of nowhere signifying a target. Not low and insistent, building to rapid intensity like usual calls, but straight out of the gate blaring: you have to get there now! Right now, or you’re going to miss it! The alarm was one of the strongest he’d ever felt, meaning an extinction–level target. He had to go, and he had to go now. But Caelieus would be arriving at any minute! He couldn’t leave.
The alarm spiked, ripping pain split his head. If he didn’t go now the world would end. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” He closed his eyes and vanished.
8
The world pulled in on itself, rolling up, changing from three dimensional to two, then to one-dimensional, and finally to non-existence. It could’ve been less than a second or over a thousand years as time ceased to exist, but then as fast as a blinking eye, Malcolm reappeared. He spun in the unfamiliar bedroom. The light poured in the windows through the open blinds. His target slept on the king-sized bed in the middle of the large master bedroom. A younger woman, late twenties or early thirties, lay on the bed, curled on her side. Her medium brown hair tangled around her head and pillow. Black modern furniture with matching nightstands, a dresser, and an armoire adorned the room. Paris-themed paintings decorated the walls. The pink bedspread had French sayings written over it. A large toy dump truck and a stuffed elephant littered the floor around her bed. All these he noticed in a second, but the biggest jolt was the unmistakable sound of a shower running behind a closed door to the left.
“Shit,” Malcolm whispered, sprinting to the bed. The woman lay in the middle of it, and he had to climb on, inching his way closer to her on his knees. The running water of the shower turned off followed by the sounds of what he assumed was the shower door closing. He froze for a nanosecond. The bathroom door never opened. His shoulders relaxed a fraction before he scooted the rest of the way closer to the woman. He put a hand on her forehead and opened the singularity within him. This target was special. He felt it deep down in his core where the heart of his dream thief power lived. From that spot, his gift uncoiled like a sleeping snake and slithered up through his body, down his arm, and into the woman’s mind. Their minds linked in seconds. Never before had he paid less attention to the fleeting images flashing across his retinas. At any moment, the door would open, and the person in the bathroom would catch him.
The dream didn’t make any sense, but they never did in the raw form while taking them. At first, it was a blaze of gold that melted away to popcorn. This faded away into test tubes and the inside of a lab. Then the woman was in a stark white lab coat, looking down into a microscope, straightening with a triumphant smile. The images changed into what looked like a series of math equations.
A child’s scream ripped through the room, and the woman’s eyes flew open as she bolted upright.
The connection snapped. The wisps of dream fading like smoke on the wind.
Malcolm ricocheted backward as the force of breaking the connection early rippled through him like a mini earthquake. The child’s screams mingled with the target’s screams. She sat upright in bed, mouth open, eyes wide in shock, covers pulled tight over her body to rest on her chin. Malcolm backed away, unfortunately closer to the screaming child in the doorway. This broke the woman’s fear-driven paralysis. She shoved herself up. Two hands placed flat against his shirt. She hurled him in the direction away from her baby.
Flying backward, he caught sideways images of a small boy, maybe two or three. The boy ran to his mother’s arms. He rolled and skidded to a halt as the woman yelled, “James!”
Malcolm flew off the bed. He landed hard on the plush tan carpet. A man burst out of the door beside him a second after Malcolm landed, a mere three seconds after the little boy’s scream. Malcolm had all of a blink of an eye to take in a dark-headed white man, naked except for the Toy Story towel wrapped around his waist. It took the man, who he assumed was James, the same time to register Malcolm and lunged forward. He didn’t have time to get up from his inconvenient position on the floor before the man landed blow after blow on his back. The pain never registered.
One second, he stared at the light tan carpet, the next the face of Woody from Toy Story stared back at him. Next, a foot appeared at his peripheral vision and landed on his nose. It crunched and blood squirted. Through the shouts and the screams of the boy, he heard the mother on the phone. “This is Dharma Knight. There’s a man in my house. What? We’re in Lombard.”
He lost the rest of her address. He positioned himself in front of his attacker’s legs. He leapt forward, tackling the man. He ran backward with him, crashing into the armoire. Dharma screamed and rushed from the room. Malcolm caught a blur of movement from the bedroom door and the retreating sounds of the child’s screams.
James pushed back against him, ripping his hair out. His scalp healed instantaneously. Even his nose righted itself.
The man fought like a wild beast, lost to an animalistic blood lust. Malcolm threatened James’s family, and he would destroy him or die trying. Malcolm didn’t want to hurt the man. Self-loathing stabbed at him because of the trouble this had already caused. But he had to get out of here. He slung the man off of him, straightening.
Malcolm reared his arm bac
k, hand gripped in a fist, and slung it toward the man’s face. It connected with a sickening, head splitting thud. James moaned once, eyes rolling in the back of his head. Malcolm eased him to the floor. He had held back, giving enough force to knock him out cold, but not enough to do any serious damage. James would have a concussion and a hell of a headache for a few days, but he’d live. Malcolm raced to the window. Thank the gods. The bedroom was on the first floor facing the backyard.
He slid the window open and kicked out the screen. Sirens already rang out in the distance. He bolted through the backyard, dodged a large black dog that came tearing after him. He launched himself over the fence, but the dog caught his ankle. He hung over the privacy fence, shaking his leg. The dog let go, and he fell backward, landing hard on his back.
His breath rushed out in a gush. For a long, painful second air wouldn’t move in his chest.
The yard backed up to a wooded area. He rolled to his feet and disappeared into the foliage, digging deep into his pocket. His cell phone only had fifteen percent battery. He slid it on, hit the phone icon, and dialed Debbie.
He ran at full speed, at first with a limp that proceeded to a full run after the dog’s bite healed. He stayed within the brush, avoiding a walking trail not far from him. The phone rang only a few times but felt like an eternity.
“What’s up, boss man?” Debbie answered.
“Debbie I’m in trouble. Can you come get me?”
“Oh my god. What’s wrong?”
He dodged a tree, panting, still at a run. “No time to explain. Will you come?”
“Yeah, but, where are you?”
“Lombar...,” he tripped over a root of another tree and fell forward, rolling several times, before sliding down a hill landing with a great splash in a creek. The phone flew from his hand. He scrambled from the ground. His clothes filthy with mud, pants ripped at the knees. The palms of his hands and knees bled from faint scratches. The sirens drew ever closer and the shouts of men rang out in the morning air.
Scanning the ground fast, his gaze skipped from creek, to rocks, to piles of old fallen leaves searching for the phone. He found it three feet away, submerged fully in the water. He picked it up, and as he’d expected, it had died.
The phone shoved back in his pocket, he took off once again. This time he slipped closer to the houses and scaled a tree to get the lay of the land. Dogs barked their excitement at the sirens and the urgent shouts of men. Malcolm wondered if the police had brought search dogs. Surely, they wouldn’t be out looking for him in force. It had been too fast, and in Chicago, where he assumed he’d transported, like any big city, a simple break-in would warrant one, maybe two squad cars, but no more. It wasn’t like in the movies or as if he was some escaped convict. Being up high gave him two things—a better vantage point and a few seconds to calm down. His heart pounded from the adrenaline, cool sweat covered him in a fine film, along with murky creek water. After several long deep breaths, he relaxed enough to focus.
Besides his need for immediate escape, he was screwed. He’d had to transport before Caelieus had regenerated, back to Chicago of all places. Stephanie would be worried sick. He vaguely remembered seeing her name on the missed call log while he thumbed to Debbie’s name. He’d never had a target in the same town where he lived. If he got caught, it would mean major trouble for Debbie. But that wasn’t the worst of it. He’d only gotten half the target. Half!
It wasn’t a total miss, but what would the repercussions be? During a missed target, the dream thieves had no idea what they’d missed, and instead had been forced to lie in wait, watching the intended target, and minimizing the damage as best they could, if the event could ever be ascertained.
Missing half a target was unprecedented. The new memories twisted in his mind, trying to force themselves into his consciousness, but being incomplete, they wandered in circles. He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his tube of simple syrup and a bottle of liquid ibuprofen, glad he’d decided to start carrying some. With his immediate needs taken care of, he eyed the neighborhood. Three houses over from where he hid, a car pulled out of the driveway. Seconds later, another car left from the same house.
The house would be empty, he guessed, if not for a dog or two. He jumped down and crept close to the rows of privacy fences until he reached that third house. He pulled himself upward and eyed the yard. No dog house or the inevitable littering of dog crap on the lawn. Either these people didn’t own a dog, or they were meticulous about cleaning up after it. Malcolm guessed the former and flipped forward, landing in a crouched position.
He climbed the three steps onto a large deck on the back of the two-story brick house and then passed the grill and patio table and chairs to the white backdoor. A red and white curtain blocked the window. He tried the knob, guessing it’d be locked. Inside one of his many jacket pockets, he removed what he called his spare key. Others would call it a lock pick kit, but whatever. Having to magically appear where someone was sleeping at a moment’s notice and leaving yourself vulnerable meant that you had to learn some unsavory talents, picking locks not the worst of them.
It took longer than he wanted, but the backdoor swung open and no piercing alarm followed. He wiped off the backdoor knob and clicked it shut. Again, there were no sounds of anyone in the house or barking dogs. He breathed a sigh of relief. A large yellow and white cat lounged nonchalantly in the middle of the granite island eying him while giving a haughty flick of the tail. Shining cherry cabinets lined the kitchen along with stainless steel appliances and a tile floor. There was a cherry dining room table to the side that matched the cabinets. It was a quaint remodeled 1960s house. He walked through the swinging wooden door into the narrow hallway leading to the front door. A formal sitting room and dining room flanked the door, separated by the stairs on the left. There was another door beyond the formal dining room that Malcolm guessed led to a family room that connected to the kitchen.
He took the stairs two at a time, up the worn carpet to the second floor. They remodeled downstairs but hadn’t made it this far yet. Upstairs had three bedrooms and two baths, no master suite like today’s standards. One bedroom held a computer desk, file cabinets, and several bookshelves. A landline sat on the desk, which was a novelty in today’s world. A workout/TV room held leather couches and a forty-inch flat screen mounted on the wall next to an oversized and underused weight bench, judging by the dust.
The only room used as an actual bedroom sat in the back nearest the bathroom and had been decorated old country style with a floral quilt as a bedspread. The couple hadn’t bothered making the bed before they’d left for work. Dirty clothes littered the floor along with a wet towel. Inside the closet, Malcolm pulled out a pair of carpenter pants and a polo shirt. The pants would be a little short and the shirt a bit snug, but he’d manage. After grabbing a belt to cinch in the waist, he transferred the contents of his jacket into the mini pockets of the pants. After three thorough checks, he made sure that nothing of his remained inside the jacket that could link it to him. He stripped quickly down to his boxers, shoving his old pants and shirt in the middle of an overflowing laundry basket, and hung his jacket in the man’s closet. It wasn’t stealing if one left clothing in return. At least that’s what he told himself, that and, his clothing had to be double if not triple the cost of anything in the man’s current closet.
In the hallway bathroom, Malcolm used a few sheets of wetted toilet paper to clean the dried blood from his face and hands before flushing it down the toilet. He finished redressing in the man’s clothing then made his way to the office. Picking up the landline, he dialed Debbie again, cursing himself for not thinking of calling Juan instead.
On the first ring, she answered, voice tight, “Hello?”
“It’s me.” Her sigh came heavy through the phone.
“Thank god. Where are you?”
“Lombard.”
“I guessed that much before I lost you, but where at? I’m already on my way.
” Pleasure flooded his system at her intuition. “Although when I get there, you’d better have some damn good explanation as to why you are back in Illinois instead of in Rome or wherever else you said you were going.”
Shit. He hadn’t been thinking when he’d called her earlier. His brief time with the other dream thieves clouded his usual secrecy. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. One mistake after another today. “It’s a long story.”
“Lucky for you, we’ve got an hour car ride home. Now, where the hell am I going?”
Malcolm gave her an address of a local bar that, if his memory served him correctly, wasn’t far from here. Wiping off all surfaces to get rid of any fingerprints, he left the house. Obadiah had discovered dream thieves had fingerprints, but they also changed during a regeneration. He sure as hell didn’t want to have to force one to save his hide if the cops found his prints. Not that Malcolm Jones would be in any law enforcement database anyway.
He slipped out the backdoor and over the fence. He jogged along until he could sneak onto the main street without being too conspicuous. From what he could gather, most, if not all, of the houses were empty. By this time in the morning, majority of the residents had already left for their daily commute. Malcolm left the house wishing he could check in with Stephanie, cursing at how dependent he’d become on his stupid little cell phone. The owners of the house he’d been in wouldn’t notice a local call, but one to Italy might pique their interest, and if they talked to their neighbors, the Knights, the date would be suspicious. The break-in would be the talk of this neighborhood for a while—it might even make the local news.
The people living in the house shouldn’t notice he’d broken in since he did his best to clean up, and he hoped they’d not notice the new items of clothing during their next wash, but if they did, they couldn’t tie them to him, except for the phone call. He’d have to deal with that nonsense if it happened.
The Dream Thief Page 7