The Dream Thief

by Leann M Rettell

  Debbie had tricked him. He should’ve known better. She had accepted his explanation too easily. She had dismissed his super healing as some sort of trick.

  Metal clamps had been strapped to his ankles and wrists. He didn’t have time for this. They hadn’t brought his supplies. He had taken off his jacket in order to write but hadn’t gotten it when he’d answered the door. His woolen, blackish-gray t-shirt and jeans didn’t hold any of his belongings. They hadn’t stopped long enough to get his wallet or cell phone, either. Many, many times in the past he had wished for the ability to transport when he didn’t have a target but never more than in that moment. It shouldn’t be hard to break free and run. The gods had decided to bestow him with the gifts of super strength and speed.

  He pulled his wrists apart, suppressed a groan, and held his breath as his face turned red. The metal bent and twisted, and the little chain connecting them split. There was enough room to slip two fingers under his wrist and pull, so he distorted the metal until it could slip off his wrist. He repeated the process on the other side, and by the time they reached the next stoplight, he was free.

  Shaking off the straps, he stood, and at the next stop light, he took the door at a run. They crashed open, warping under the impact. He slipped out from the bowed doors. The woman in the car behind the van screamed. The two guards shouted, and their doors sprang open. Malcolm whipped his head side to side. The medication they had given him hadn’t lasted long. He was only a few short blocks from Eye of the Beholder. The last of the alcohol burned out of his system with the aid of adrenaline.

  All of this took less than two seconds. He jetted at his full speed. His brain made a mental map of what he saw, doing his best to plan out a path so he wouldn’t crash into anyone or anything. Then he jumped into hyper speed. To anyone looking, it would seem like he disappeared. Only a whoosh of air would be detected. With the span of three heartbeats, he stood outside the store. He spied Debbie crying into a cup of steaming liquid inside the Chai Life with Greta sitting near her. At least she felt bad for what she had done.

  In a blur, he flew up the stairs to his apartment. Not slowing down, he packed all his clothes, paperwork on various identities, the cash from dozens of countries, and his investment bonds. Next, he grabbed his laptop, phone, and tablet, and then he turned off the GPS tracking on all of them. Finally, he snared the premade simple syrup. He raced down the fire escape and entered his private underground garage. He pulled up his lawyer on his cell, and let it ring while he loaded everything into his most inconspicuous car: a black Audi.

  The phone answered on the third ring, “Hello Malcolm,” Omar Bilal answered as if he’d been expecting him.

  He relayed his current state of events while slamming the trunk lid down on the car. He slid inside, turning over the ignition.

  The man laughed, mercilessly. “Yes, the hospital notified me. I did warn you when you had me draw up the papers giving Debbie power of attorney.”

  “That was for the business!” He resisted the urge to punch the steering wheel as the weight of betrayal coursed through him and morphed into an anger that his lawyer already knew. In days past, having people in the clergy or other positions of power on their side was always a good idea, but now dream thieves had lawyers in every corner of the globe on speed dial.

  “I told you. How you had me draw it up also included your physical and mental well-being, and you replied, and I quote, ‘I am immortal and not human. This won’t be an issue.’ Apparently, mental breakdown applies to you immortals as well.” He chuckled, amused at his own cleverness. “I take it you will be leaving our fair city. Do you still wish for Miss Debbie Anderson to run Eye of the Beholder?”

  “Yes. For now.” He sighed. He was so disappointed she didn’t believe him. “I have everything I need. At some point, the business will be sold to another of my aliases, but unless something changes, Miss Anderson will be the manager and operator. I’ll be contacting you with my next identity.”

  “Very well, Mr. Jones. I do wish you well.” He hung up. Lawyers.

  Malcolm hit the door opener to his garage and pulled away, uncertain of his destination. He chanced driving down Lincoln Ave, and he saw that Debbie remained in the Chai Life, still crying. He sped off down the street as cop cars and another white van with Hartgrove Behavioral Health System painted on the side pulled up at the shop. They paid his Audi no mind. He drove out of the city debating on where to go. After twenty minutes of aimless driving, going as far away as possible, his new cell rang.

  Stephanie’s name popped up on his Bluetooth connection via the radio console. He hit the button on the steering wheel, connecting it with the car’s speakers. Nervous sweat tickled at the back of his neck. He really didn’t want to tell her that he’d fucked up. Again. Centuries of good behavior wiped clean in less than a week. It was pathetic, really. “Hello.”

  “Malcolm, I read your report. This is major.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Did you get any more?”

  Flashes of his drunken walk to the door, the psych ward guys, and Debbie flew through his mind. He hadn’t had time to think any further to see if more would come. Now those memories were as organized as he could get them, and the rest had slipped away. He knew, without exactly knowing how he knew, that he could drink all the alcohol in Illinois, and he wouldn’t get anything else. “No. That’s it.”

  “Damn.” In the background, he heard her fingers flying across a keyboard. He could imagine her sitting at the desk with the double computer and searching like mad through file after file, screens in front of her blazing. The sound stopped and she inhaled sharply.

  “What?” he asked, desperate to find out what caused her anxiety.

  “I’m going to have everyone review the file. You start researching the target.”

  He knew her too well. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  The line quieted, save for the tapping of her fingernails on the table, the way she always did when she wrestled with hard decisions. “Stephanie?”

  Defeated, she said, “I’ve run all the simulations. If your prediction is true, then whatever the target is going to do is an extinction level event.” She stopped as if this answered everything.

  Malcolm’s fingers gripped the steering wheel, still not understanding, but he knew it had to be something major. “I already know that.”

  “You don’t understand. We can’t let this happen. We have to stop it. No matter what.” Her last words came out strange, as if it meant more than face value.

  “Of course. I mean, I know that.” He paused, realization dawning. “Wait. Hold on. Are you talking about eliminating the target?”

  The line remained cold and empty, without a trace of humanity. Malcolm couldn’t breathe. He pulled to the side of the road, now unaware of his location. The surrounding road vanished as visions of the woman and her family filled his mind: Dharma—young, vibrant, married. The all-consuming fear in the eyes of her little boy and husband. That fear was fueled by love; they didn’t want to lose each other. And Stephanie was considering killing this woman and destroying her family. It had never come to that before. Never, even with all the horrors in the past and all the missed targets. They had never had to eliminate a target. The dream thief’s sole existence was to kill the idea because almost always, the people weren’t bad.

  Tolkien said it best. “A single dream is more powerful than a thousand realities.”

  “Killing her will be the last option, but it has to be on the table. This dream could end humanity, and no one will see it coming until it’s too late. The life of one woman isn’t worth more than the fate of the world.”

  His fist slammed on the steering wheel. Over and over until blood coated his knuckles. Stephanie called his name, and his ancient name, but still he didn’t hear her. If only he’d have left as soon as he’d felt the alarm. If only he’d have thought and locked the bedroom door. If only someone else would’ve went with him for Caelieus’s regene
ration. If only.

  He stopped, bending over the steering wheel, breathing heavy, lost in grief, regret, self-loathing. The radio kicked on as one of the blows disconnected his phone call.

  Malcolm stared ahead, driving on autopilot, the bruises on his knuckles fading back to his natural skin color. The phone rang again, pulling him out of his reprieve.

  He answered Stephanie’s returned call, without saying a word.

  “Malcolm? Malcolm are you there?”

  He muttered something incoherent, not really speaking, a slip of sound letting her know he’d heard her.

  “Listen, nothing is happening yet. We’ve always known this could be a possibility, but we still have time. This isn’t something that needs to happen right away. We’re going to research. I want you to find out as much as you can about the target. Infiltrate her work, her family, whatever you have to do to get close to her.”

  Get close to her? Hell, the last thing he’d done was slam his fist into her husband’s face. With the way his luck was going, he had no hope that he could slip in and make friends with them without being recognized.

  “Okay? Malcolm?” Stephanie asked using his name to keep him tied to reality.

  “Yeah, okay. How’s Caelieus?”

  Fingers flew over the keys once more. “We’ve got it handled. Do your part okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. I’ll call you soon. I’m here if you need anything. Get to work.”

  “Yeah, okay. Bye.” The call disconnected. He found himself turning onto the on ramp of the Tri-State Tollway headed back to Lombard without realizing it. He guessed his subconscious already knew what he had to do. He eased back onto the highway, turned up the radio, and drove on automatic pilot. He definitely wouldn’t be staying at The Crown Plaza. Even if he hadn’t gotten kicked out of the bar, that hotel was way too close to the target’s house. God, when had that been? He traveled farther down Roosevelt and found a nice little Hilton.

  Malcolm pulled in, parked, and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. Despite everything that had happened, other than needing a shower, he looked okay. Dried blood smeared on the steering wheel and on his hands, but his knuckles had healed. By some miracle, he’d held himself in check and hadn’t busted the console.

  He pulled a stack of wipes out of the glove compartment and cleaned off the blood. Outside, the traffic noise roared, and cars zoomed past on the mini-expressway. The hotel had a Starbucks inside that he would be frequenting as soon as he checked in. He opened one of his suitcases, found the hidden compartment. Who would he be today? He grabbed the closest ID.

  Barnaby Hart it was. He always kept a few extra identities complete with driver’s license, passport, and credit cards handy. A dream thief never knew when he or she would have to cut their losses and run, although getting involuntarily committed by his store clerk was probably a first. With years of constant routine, all this change unnerved him.

  The hotel reminded him of any other across America. To the left was a registration desk, currently unmanned. To the right was a sitting area with large overstuffed chairs surrounding a fireplace, and a dining room behind a large stone brick wall held a buffet bar off to the side for continental breakfasts. A sign led to an in-house Starbucks farther down. Fresh-baked lemon squares had been placed on the registration desk tucked inside a crystal cake plate. A popcorn machine lay ahead near the bathroom. A young woman, no more than twenty-five, appeared behind the counter. “Hello, sir. Welcome to the Hilton. Do you have a reservation?”

  He smiled, flashing the charm that early today Debbie had called cheating. “No, I don’t. I hope you’ll have a room available.”

  “As a matter of fact, we do.” She smiled, the tiniest of blushes tinged her cheeks. “How many nights will you be staying with us?”

  For a moment he reminisced the old days of walking into a tavern, flipping a golden coin, and securing lodging for a month. But accommodations had improved greatly. “Let’s start with a week.”

  Her eyes brightened, as if she couldn’t be more excited that this good-looking guy would be staying in her hotel for a week. When she looked back at him after clicking on her keyboard, she stole a glance at his left hand, checking for a wedding band no doubt. “Excellent. Are you looking for a king, queen, or two full beds?”

  “King.” He’d spent many years, too numerous to count, sleeping on straw, feather mattresses, or the ground. He wanted the biggest, softest beds in the world for as long as they lasted. One thing he knew for sure, nothing in this world stayed the same.

  She nodded, clicking away on the keyboard. “Smoking or non-smoking?”

  “Non.”

  There was more clicking, and then she looked around, giving him a sneaky look. “I’m not supposed to do this, but our presidential room is empty. I can update you for no extra charge.”

  Malcolm leaned in closer, throwing off his most masculine vibe. “How interesting.”

  “Would you want it?” Her voice dropped an octave becoming slow and seductive. The offer clearly for more than just the room.

  He matched her tone. “Oh, yes.” His gaze dipped to her chest, reading her name tag, “Meg.”

  She shuddered and turned away, breathing heavier. He wasn’t above flirting to get a few extra things in his life. People had been doing it for centuries. Meg finished his transaction, took his credit card, and grazed her fingertips along his hand when he took the card back. She handed him papers for his room, a parking pass for his car, the little key card for his room, and directions to log into the Wi-Fi. Malcolm thanked her and as he turned, she asked, “So are you in town for business or pleasure?”

  He looked at her over his shoulder with a smile and said, “Oh, I hope both.”

  Opening the door to his room with a venti coffee with half a ton of sugar in one hand, he slipped the key card in his pocket while holding the door open with his foot and grabbed his suitcase. The lights turned on as soon as he opened the door. A nice touch. The inside spread wide open before him, but as he’d expected, the Presidential room in a random suburb of Chicago wasn’t impressive. King-sized bed at the furthest end of the room, and the heating/ac unit was in front of the window. The windows were treated with one sheer curtain, a piece of plastic, and a third heavy curtain that could be pulled shut with white plastic rods. Modern black, reds, and grays adorned the room from the pictures on the walls to the curtains and bedspread. A cherry dresser faced the bed with a decent-sized TV on top.

  A half wall separated the bedroom from the living area that was fit with a love seat, end tables with lamps, a coffee table, another flat screen TV, and a computer desk. A mini-kitchen with microwave, mini-fridge, and Keurig sat beside the front door. The bathroom on the right screamed luxury—tiled floor with expensive light fixtures around the mirror and marble counters and a Jacuzzi tub large enough to fit Malcolm despite his long legs. A walk-in, tiled shower reflected the color of rainbows. They’d hidden the toilet behind a door between the sink and shower.

  With the exploration of his new temporary home complete, he tossed his suitcase on the floor and flopped down on the bed, lying on his back, feet dangling over the edge, staring at the ceiling. The digital clock on the nightstand read 3:30 p.m. His unhappiness and general self-loathing rose high like bile in the back of his throat. He should have been in Eye of the Beholder with Debbie and her incense burning non-stop and her iPod playing those incredibly random playlists while he teased her about it incessantly, all the while loving every minute of it. They would stock shelves, go over inventory, check the online auctions, dust, sweep, and mop. How many afternoons had he sat at the counter, pretending to be concentrating hard on the financials while really watching Debbie dance around the shop singing?

  Dream thieves knew better than anyone how one misstep can lead to an entire domino effect, sending the entire world crashing down. He really shouldn’t be this surprised to find himself in this predicament. Perhaps surprise wasn’t the right word—he was
more devastated, heartbroken, and full of despair. He had lived through caring about a human and losing one before. He knew he could take it. He’d survived it once, even if she still haunted him, he could do it again.

  No. Deep down, he really hated himself for missing half the target. He was a dream thief, and he’d fucked up. He’d messed up so royally. It wasn’t a few hundred lives and space exploration at stake. No. He’d fucked up with the fate of the god damned world.

  Wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to fix this. Pushing past the melancholy, Malcolm rolled to his feet, pulled out his computer, grabbed his coffee, and spent the next thirty minutes trying to get the Wi-Fi to work because, of course, technology wouldn’t work right away. It was just another way the universe fucked with him these days.

  Like a twelve-year-old, Meg had slipped her phone number into his hotel papers topped with a little heart. The benign flirting lightened his mood and made him hopeful for the world.

  Once the connection was secure, he began to finally get some real work done, but the internet search didn’t yield much until he added James Knight along with Dharma Knight. Then he found a wedding announcement from four years ago. He recognized her picture on the online Chicago Tribune.

  He tried again using her maiden name. This yielded a graduation announcement from five years ago listing someone with her name receiving a Ph.D. in Ecology and Evolutionary Biology from Brown University.

  Deflated, he logged in to Cos and picked over the case file again. As he hoped, the memories found their way to the surface having been hidden in his subconscious. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the newspaper article he’d seen that reported Dharma winning the Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine. He wished he could’ve detected a year, but no luck. A phrase popped out: Avient Pharmaceuticals.