by Sarah Noffke
“What do you see now?” I say.
“Airport.”
“Yes,” I say with a sigh. “We already know that. I want you to turn around until you find Person E. Move slowly,” I encourage, knowing that anything can yank the vision out of her head. Especially if it’s being protected by another Dream Traveler.
“Red,” she says.
“What’s that?” I say, leaning forward.
“Shirt,” she says.
“Person E is wearing a red shirt?” I say.
She half nods.
It’s not much, but before Roya’s report only saw a misty figure since this major detail was being shielded from her. To be able to black out a person is a unique thing to do.
“Hoodie,” she says.
“Red hoodie,” I say, tapping the pen on the desk, thinking. That’s quite specific and should be all we need to find this person if we know where to look.
“Pivot and tell me what you see around you. Is there anything that’s distinct? Artwork? Pictures?”
She seems to squint with her eyes closed. Pauses. Turns her head around like she’s studying the empty office, but I know it’s her vision.
“Florida,” she mumbles, sounding drunk.
“What? You’re in Florida? Is it the Miami airport? Orlando? Can you tell?” I say, pulling a business card from my pocket and jotting down notes.
She shakes her head; her long blonde hair falls and stays in her face covering up one closed eye.
“No. Fleur-de-lis,” Roya says.
“Ah, got it,” I say, writing down two words.
“Now I want you to look for a clock. Tell me what time it is,” I say.
Confusion marks the space between her eyes. She shakes her head. And if she could talk properly she’d probably whine about how she can’t find one.
“Roya, it’s a bloody airport. There’s a clock. Look,” I say, my tone bordering on something that could pull her out of the hypnosis. We know where to go and who to look for but we need an exact time.
“Ten,” she stutters.
“Ten p.m.?” I say.
She nods slightly, but then shakes her head. “Ten twenty-six,” Roya says, her voice suddenly clear, confident.
I write those two numbers down and rise at once, leaving her entranced in the office. She’ll wake up in an hour or two. Maybe three. Hope she didn’t have any plans.
***
I throw the card with the three pieces of information I obtained from Roya on Trey’s desk. He flips his head up and looks at me, a quizzical expression on his face.
“How the fuck do you keep this spaceship of freaks running without me?” I say.
Trey picks up the card with my neat handwriting on it. “New Orleans? That’s where the abduction is?”
“Yes. Send a dozen agents to scout around a half an hour before event time. One of them has to be prepared to intervene when they find Person E. And I figure whoever is behind this, possibly Person F, isn’t going to be happy about it so have them ready for retaliation,” I say.
“Ren, this plan really should be John’s call.”
I stare at Trey, regard him with a long cold stare. “Do you think his strategy is going to best mine?”
“Well no, but it’s just it’s his department…” He trails away with a deflated breath. His torn eyes are on his hands on his desk. Then Trey looks up at me. “Yeah, fine, we will go with this plan,” he says, giving me a heavy expression. The problem with being a leader is making constant decisions. It’s this responsibility that has weighed heavily on Trey Underwood through the years.
“I want to question Person E when you bring them in,” I say, my usual authoritative voice at the forefront of my tone.
“Ren, I allowed you to consult on this. You’re still not cleared for these cases.”
“Sure, sure,” I say.
Trey pauses and looks at me. It’s one of those expressions. The ones that make him look sensitive and gross.
“How are you doing? Since Dahlia left?”
I shrug. “I’m fine. A little horny.”
“Ren…”
“I miss her. Of course I do. I also miss my mum, and level five cases, and not having a quiet flat. Shit changes. Those who dwell die. So there you go. You want to help me out, then don’t give me your pity. Give me clearance. Get shitty people out of this metal box. Let some of the Neanderthals on the news reports die,” I say. “That would be you helping me out.”
He draws in a long breath and gives me a scrutinizing expression. “Maybe you should call her.”
Nobody ever fucking listens. They hear the part of the conversation that they want to and erase the other parts.
“With all due respect, Trey, I don’t need your relationship advice. You haven’t been laid in two decades.”
His wife died that long ago. It was my fault. And only recently do I talk about it like it wasn’t. “Blokes like you and me aren’t really suited for relationships. That would involve us making compromises and having a biased frame of mind. Men who get married, they make mistakes. They’re lazy, like that fuck-up John. They want to make it home for evening meals when there’s a bloody world to save. Some people in this lifetime get to coast, tucking in early and shuffling around on lazy Sunday mornings in their bathrobes and slippers. And then there’s men like you and me. The ones who are actually protecting the fucking world.”
Trey has an almost defiant look on his face, but I’m guessing his logical side will whisk that away soon. He’s not one to remain rebellious. Trey leaves that role for me.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding, pushing his hand through his silver hair. “You’re probably right. Some of us are just better off alone.”
“Of course I’m bloody right,” I say and leave.
Chapter Seventeen
I clear my throat loudly but Adelaide doesn’t stir from her place on the couch. I consider throwing a glass of water on her but I don’t want to damage my leather sofa. Instead, I grab the poker by the fire and nudge her on the back with it. She’s lying on her stomach, her mouth open, drool spilling out onto the pillow below her.
She swats at my hand. “I didn’t do it,” she mumbles in her sleep.
“Do what?” I say, jabbing her again, ash from the poker dirtying her shirt. Once more she makes a useless attempt to assault whatever is pestering her.
“Stop it,” she mumbles.
“Not likely,” I say to no effect. I drop the poker by the fireplace, causing an awful clatter. This also doesn’t wake Sleeping-Annoying. So then I grab the book on the table and drop it straight back down on the marble surface. It lands with a loud flat clap.
Adelaide pushes up at once, whipping her head back and forth, worry and bewilderment written on her face.
Her unfocused eyes blink until she finds me standing a few feet away, regarding her with an irritated stare.
“What?” she says in her own exasperated voice.
“It’s the middle of the day,” I say.
“Which is why I’m napping,” she says. “Siestas. You’ve heard of them? They’re very popular in other cultures.”
“You’re British. We don’t nap. We work so the bloody Europeans can lie around all afternoon,” I say.
“I didn’t expect you back yet,” she says, rocking back into a seated position. “You said you were going to work.”
“I’m highly efficient,” is all I say.
Adelaide sniffs and then looks down at her shirt. She twists it around to see that it’s streaked with soot. Then her eyes dart to the poker sitting in front of the fireplace. “Did you poke me with that?” she says, sounding insulted.
“I was trying to rouse you.”
“Shake my shoulder next time.” she says, brushing off the ash from her shirt and onto my couch like heathen would.
“I don’t touch people,” I say.
Her eyes then grow distant and she nods. “Yeah. I get it.”
I sit in my armchair as a new reality takes over
my thoughts. Adelaide understands. All my life I’ve been a monster who was an outsider even to those in my own race. Dream Travelers are powerful but I’ve never met anyone like me, with this much power. Burdened by this power. But Adelaide gets it. She can’t touch someone without being bombarded by their thoughts. She’s felt the isolation of being able to control minds and therefore finding no true challenges. Maybe like me she thinks of this complex world as less of a Rubik’s Cube and more of a connect the dots game.
“You were with Dahlia though,” she says, cutting into my thoughts.
“What?” I say, returning my gaze to her.
“You said you didn’t touch anyone, but you were with Dahlia.”
“She’s immune,” I say, my thoughts still clouded by the strangeness of having someone to relate to. It should be a comfort, but I don’t like such things.
“Immune? Like you can touch her and you don’t read her thoughts?” Adelaide says.
“And my mind control doesn’t work on her, nor my ability to hypnotize.”
“How is that possible?”
“Bloody magic, I don’t know,” I say.
“Well, then you have to get her back.”
“Why the fuck does everyone offer up their stupid advice to me?” I say.
“I’m just saying that if there was someone my powers didn’t work on I’d slap a ring on their finger so fast,” she says with a laugh.
“It doesn’t work that way,” I say, shaking my head at her. “And Dahlia and I like each other way too much to get married. It’s a repulsive institution that should be banned so that domestic violence finally comes to a bloody end.”
She actually laughs at this. “So you think that if people weren’t forced to stick around and make it work out they wouldn’t beat each other up?”
“Or just fester with resentment for a spouse who does too many things they despise and quit turning them on eons ago,” I say.
“What about staying together for the kid’s mentality?” she asks, sounding amused now.
“Right, because two hostile people who are faking a lifetime of happiness aren’t screwing up young minds,” I say.
“Well, I wish you would have been around in one capacity or another when I was growing up.”
Her statement, which is too blunt and not carrying any emotion, sticks me in the throat. “Well, I wasn’t,” I manage to say matter-of-factly. “I was busy saving humanity so you could grow up to destroy it. Thank me later.”
“Yeah, I get it. You were too busy to be there even if you had known about me. Semi imprisoned in a place, I think you said. But still…” she says, her tone shifting a bit, sounding regretful. “I used to dream about you knocking at the door of my flat. I’d open it and—”
“Stop,” I say, cutting off words that I don’t want lodged in my memory. “Such fantasies weren’t good for you then and they are utterly useless now.”
“I’m really starting to enjoy these heart-to-hearts with you,” she says, batting her eyelashes at me, her hands on the sides of her face.
“Moving on,” I say flatly. “We’re going to discuss dream travel. It might be good that you’re rested up because it will make it less likely that you fall asleep instead of actually dream traveling, which is what I intend you to do.”
Through a yawn she says, “I don’t know. I’m still pretty groggy.”
“Well, snap out of it. Dream travel takes great focus,” I say.
“I’ve done it before,” she says, her tone suddenly snotty.
“You’ve haphazardly done it. I’m going to teach you how to control it.”
“So there’s a process?” she says.
“Yes. There’s a process for everything. Blinking, nodding off, pissing. Most just don’t think about it. But before it becomes autonomic you have to practice, like learning to walk,” I say.
“So what do I do?”
“You’re familiar with Tower Bridge?” I ask.
A frustrated sound falls out of her mouth. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it. I was born in London, you know.”
“I didn’t know actually,” I say, my words terse. “Didn’t much care.”
“How can you not care about me? I’m your daughter.”
“Don’t use that word. It makes me gag,” I say, and do feel something clawing its way up my esophagus.
She huffs with obvious disapproval. “What about Tower Bridge?”
“Well, it’s easier to dream travel to places that you’re familiar with,” I say.
“Then how did I find my way to the Louvre? I’ve never been there before,” she says.
“How haven’t… Wait… Have you ever been out of bloody London before you came to Los Angeles? Never mind. I don’t care,” I say, waving my hand at her.
She narrows her eyes at me and I notice the tiniest flare to her nostrils.
Ignoring this, I say, “So you’re going to close your eyes in a minute and focus on the north side―”
“You mean Tower Hamlets?”
“Of course I do,” I say a bit impatiently. “It helps to visualize, to make a connection with the place. But just having the intention that you wish to travel to this location in your dreams is all you have to do. If you’ve done a sufficient job your vision will be blanketed in silver. This is the transport. At this point you’ve done it and the only way you can screw things up is by changing your mind. Actually there are lots of opportunities for snags and potential threats, but let’s not worry about those.”
“Wait. What? What threats?” she says, her tone urgent. I’m glad to finally get her attention. Before she looked ready to nod off again.
“Focus,” I say, snapping my fingers in the air at her. “You’re going to need every bit of that to practice this in a minute.”
She looks around at the couch. “You don’t want me to dream travel here, do you?”
“Look, this is a training session. Not a bloody slumber party. Yes, we’re going to do it right here. This is as good a place as any.”
Adelaide gives me a cautious look and then as she stares around at the surroundings it softens into acceptance. People who have no idea what they’re doing will accept perimeters pretty quickly, I’ve found.
“All right now. Lie down, stand on your head, do whatever it takes so you’re comfortable. That’s key. Because I intend for you to dream travel and if you’re successful then I’ll meet you there,” I say.
“You’re able to do that? To meet up with other Dream Travelers?”
“Yes, but only those dream traveling can see each other and interact in that realm,” I say, my head growing heavy with frustration. I’m certain my blood pressure is steadily rising moment by moment. Why isn’t there a manual for newbie Dream Travelers? Seems like we should have a bloody codex or something.
“Now close your eyes and do what I said. Don’t make me repeat myself,” I say.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” she says in a high-pitched, impersonating tone as she lies back on the couch. Adelaide folds her hands over her stomach before closing her eyes.
I watch her, waiting to see if her body grows slack. This is the tell-tale sign of dream travel, since the consciousness is absent and not creating tension in the body. It’s one of the reasons our race lives longer—our bodies aren’t damaged as much by the berating tension of our consciousness and subconsciousness.
“Breathe, Adelaide,” I say, my voice tired.
“I’m trying,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut.
“It shouldn’t be something you have to try at. Just relax,” I say.
“It’s kind of difficult with you staring at me,” she says, peeking out through one eye.
I lay my head back in my chair. “Fine, I’m not watching you.” I close my eyes but decide to wait to dream travel in case the dimwit doesn’t make it.
The quiet hum of the radiator is a welcome music to my ears. The draft that usually trespasses through the large bank of windows greets my face. Mixed with the heated air, it�
��s half warm and then also chilly. This time of year, autumn, is my favorite. Everything is dying, getting ready for winter to seal its fate. Really a peaceful time. A time for change.
And then suddenly there’s a gagging sound. It rips my attention out of the peace that was starting to creep into my head. When I open my eyes Adelaide is running through the flat, her hands over her mouth. She disappears into the loo, and then the sounds of sickness follow.
“Oh, dear god, really?” I say in a quiet voice, looking up to the ceiling. God, I get that I’m a bad man, but this punishment is a little extreme, don’t you think?
Adelaide surfaces from the bathroom a long six minutes later, her hair pulled back and her greenish face drawn.
“Although that’s not a typical reaction to dream traveling it’s not unheard of,” I say, waving to the couch. “Let’s try this again.”
She grabs her stomach as she drags herself to the couch. “I don’t want to.”