Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

by CJ Lyons

  Because of Devon.

  “You can’t give up,” Angela said. “Ryder will keep searching the tunnels. The little kids aren’t talking. But maybe in the morning, after they get some rest. And we might be able to learn something from their families once we track them down.”

  “Harold’s working on the Tower residents, trying to find the families. So, guess that just leaves you and me and Jane Doe.”

  She hesitated, staring down at her hands. They trembled slightly. She jammed them into her pockets, took a breath, and they crossed the last street separating them from Good Sam. He knew she was scared—hell, just watching her have one of those spells made his skin twitch. Primal fear. Like getting too close to an open flame. Couldn’t imagine living through one. But what choice did they have?

  They continued in silence, entering the hospital—quiet as it ever was at two thirty in the morning—and up the elevator to the ICU floor.

  Devon hated hospitals. Had spent way too much time in them with his mom. The pediatric ICU was worse than he’d imagined. The Asian girl, Jane Doe, looked even skinnier here, dwarfed by machines and people and noises. White sheets clung to her like burial shrouds.

  Doubt almost made him pull Angela back. The girl looked half past dead already. What if something happened while Angela was… his mind stuttered, trying to find words for what Angela was about to do… while Angela was with her. What would it feel like to be inside someone’s mind as they died?

  An image of his mother filled his vision. Eyes empty, staring but not seeing, just like this girl’s. Body dwindling away, but the mind already gone. Wouldn’t death be a release? A gentle embrace, gathering you to it like a lover’s arms.

  Sounded like a fairy tale to him. Sounded like bullshit. Kicking and screaming, clawing and scratching at life, that’s how death should be for someone so young, vibrant.

  The memory of Jess’s body, reaching out to him, blindsided him.

  Angela didn’t seem to notice the beeping and humming and whooshing of the machines surrounding them. Or the other patients cocooned in their beds, surrounded by gadgets and prayers.

  Instead, she grabbed Jane Doe’s chart, skimmed through it, shaking her head mournfully. “Serotonin syndrome with acute rhabdomyolysis,” she murmured, speaking Greek for all the good it did Devon. “Hemodialysis isn’t keeping up with the potassium overload.” She closed the chart, frowning, as she scrutinized the readings on the monitors. He dared a step closer, taking care not to get near any of the wires or tubes. “It’s not good. She’s dying.”

  All that medical mumbo jumbo and he could’ve told her that just by looking at the girl. He’d seen death too many times not to recognize it. Slanting his gaze at Angela, he realized she had as well. The doctor talk was just a way of denying the inevitable, controlling the chaos.

  Hell, maybe all these machines and people scurrying around were doing the same. Living in denial. Needing to be able to tell themselves they tried, they at least did something. Even if it was more harm than good.

  No wonder he hated hospitals.

  Angela leaned over a big machine with a lot of pens sketching out waves. “EEG. Her brain waves. Minimal activity.” She pursed her lips. “Some excitation. Spindle bursts. Alpha and theta waves with synchronized activity.”

  “Want to translate for us poor slobs?”

  “Her brain, the spindle bursts… I wonder if that’s the reason why—” She cut the sentence short, glancing around to see if anyone was near enough to overhear. “If this works, you might be right. Maybe somehow, I don’t know, we’re in sync.” She nodded to the comatose girl.

  “So you can do it again?”

  “Only one way to know.” Before he could ask any questions—like what the hell he should do if someone came by while she was doing her trance thing—she grabbed the girl’s hand.

  “Angela—” Too late. She was gone.

  <<<>>>

  Ryder knew there’d be a guard on the door leading from Good Sam’s basement to the tunnels, had wondered how he’d bluff his way through without getting another officer in trouble, but he needn’t have worried. It was Petrosky standing watch at the door.

  Not only did she let him inside, she checked that the crime scene techs had left and the coast was clear.

  “Looks like it’s just you, me, and the gators,” she quipped. “Don’t let them eat that dog of yours. Do me a favor and don’t trip any of those bombs. Wouldn’t want to be the one who had to explain how you got into a secure scene.”

  “Didn’t know you cared, Petrosky.”

  “Care about covering my ass, you better believe it.”

  The crime scene guys had brought in portable halogen lights and left one behind outside the taped-off and sealed door to the refrigerator, giving Ryder his first detailed look at the tunnels’ infrastructure. The walls were dove gray, either by intent or aging, as were the concrete floors. Overhead, a puzzle-knot of pipes of various sizes and colors wove their way below the catwalk. He aimed the work light back down the way they’d come, counting at least three intersections and numerous doors lining the corridor as far as he could see. Some of the blocks were lined with the metal shelving units, like the one Rossi had climbed when she chased after Esme, but others had bare walls.

  “CSU check the other rooms down here?” he asked Petrosky.

  “Kingston gave us a master key. No signs of any illegal activity, but they only covered the rooms near where the kids were found. They pulled everyone out after that.”

  “Don’t suppose you could lend me that master?”

  She thought for a moment, then took a key ring from her pocket. “I’ll need it back before shift change.”

  Almost three now. That gave him four hours. He had no intention of staying in here that long. Not alone, without backup. The dog shifted at his feet, anxious to get going. Okay, without human backup. “Deal.”

  “You know they found more than just Tyree’s bombs. There’s also meth labs, other hazmat shit. You sure it’s worth it? That girl could be anywhere by now.”

  He glanced into the blackness ahead of him. Just like Paktika. “I’ll be fine.”

  Petrosky headed back to her post, her flashlight swinging through the darkness until she disappeared around the corner. Ryder checked the maps on his phone again, confirmed what he’d committed to memory. Then he turned his own light on and let out Ozzie’s lead. “Find her, boy.”

  The dog needed little encouragement. He sniffed the air and led Ryder back to where they’d last seen Esme. So far, so good. Now came the tricky part.

  Alone except for the dog, he felt a familiar tingle of fear tap-dance between his shoulder blades. Like he had a sniper’s rifle sighted on his back. Strange noises echoed through the cavernous space, reverberating so he couldn’t pinpoint their locations. With them came an unnerving claustrophobia, as if the blackness was smothering him, walls closing in, even as there was a sense of wide-open space above him—perfect for an ambush.

  The dog hesitated, caught a scent, and they were off again.

  They passed a few places where it was obvious the bomb squad had dismantled booby traps. The ammonia stench of chemicals wafted out of several closed doors. Ryder made a mental note of them but didn’t stop. Tyree would have any product moved before he could get men down here anyway.

  Ozzie did a good job, occasionally stopping when the scent trail led them to a dead end when the overhead catwalks continued past the corridor walls. They’d backtrack, find an alternate route and continue on. Ryder decided he liked having the dog with him. Ozzie knew how to maneuver in the dark, was a hard worker, and didn’t whine. Better than some of the men he’d partnered with.

  They came to a section that was lined with doors the color of rotting Halloween pumpkins. No shelves here, just very strong, very heavy metal doors with no windows. Ozzie kept sniffing at the doors as if confused by other scents, but then tried to pull Ryder down a side corridor.

  From the map, Ryder knew the corri
dor led to one of the unmarked exits Gator Guy had told them about. It came up on Park Avenue, just a block away from Daniel Kingston’s brownstone mansion. As far away from the Tower as you could get in the tunnels. The same in the world above ground—the neighborhood where Kingston lived used to be Cambria’s Millionaire’s Row, but that was a century before the money abandoned Cambria, the Tower was built, and the city had pretty much gone to hell.

  He was just about ready to follow Ozzie in that direction when his light swept over something at the bottom edge of one of the orange doors. A smear of dark red. He crouched and focused the light on it. Blood.

  Fingerprints. Smaller than his. Gripping the edge of the door as if fighting for life.

  He motioned the dog into a sit. Using the master key, he unlocked the door. Pulled his service weapon, made sure the dog was in the clear, and pushed the door open with his foot as he took cover against the far wall.

  Ozzie barked once and lunged at Ryder, barreling into him, pushing him around the corner.

  The door swung silently inward.

  A bright white light blinded Ryder. Thanks to Ozzie, he was already twisted away from the door, half-sprinting, half-leaping through the air as the explosion hit.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Flames surrounded me. Every color imaginable, bursting and dancing and singing and sparking. I couldn’t see my body, but I felt the flames firing every nerve. Except they weren’t really colors—or rather, the colors were born from music. Painful, discordant notes that drilled into my brain.

  I wanted to shut out the blinding chords but couldn’t. Instead, I forced myself past the cacophony of light and noise and pain.

  And found her.

  She’d retreated into a small, peaceful corner. She was lovely. Long, dark hair hanging like strands of silk, face unmarred by bruises or cuts. She wore a shimmering gown that changed colors as she moved. And she was playing the piano, a large, black grand piano, its polished surface reflecting the colors of her gown as if she was painting with music.

  Her fingers, no longer swollen or broken, danced over the keys like words in a poem.

  The music was haunting. A cry for help but also a sigh of hope.

  The fingers of my left hand moved, forming chords, wanting to accompany her. For a few moments, I thought I heard a violin weaving through the piano’s voice, as if I really was playing.

  Then she looked up. You came back for me.

  In my head, her voice sounded surprised. Like she was used to being abandoned.

  You play beautifully.

  She gave me a shy smile and nodded her thanks. I think I’m dying. Shouldn’t I be scared?

  I don’t know. I sat beside her on the piano bench. The pain was gone, but the flames still surrounded us, flickering in time to her music.

  You should. You’re dying, too. She seemed disappointed that I wasn’t smarter than I was.

  What’s your name?

  Alamea Syha. My friends called me Allie.

  I hesitated, not sure of the rules of this strange conversation. Still half-believed that it wasn’t even happening, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me from finding out what I could. Who did this to you, Allie?

  The ground shifted beneath me, an earthquake toppling me from the bench. I was falling, headfirst, spinning out of control like a skydiver who’d forgotten her parachute. The pain returned, accompanied by the same visions that had bombarded me during my first contact with Allie—images of her torture, of all that she’d suffered. The face of the man was never clear, instead morphed with pain and panic into a twisted monster.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Allie cried. I’ll be good, I promise.

  I spun around, flames licking at my flesh, searing me with piercing, high-pitched screams. Found her huddled at my feet, naked again, bruised and battered and broken. She didn’t look up when I spread my arms around her, trying to protect her from the memories.

  Shhh… it’s okay, it’s okay, everything will be okay. I lied. I didn’t care. She was dying, and we both knew it—but I couldn’t let her go this way, in pain, terrified. I wanted her to have the serenity that Mrs. Kowacz had, or at least the sense of release that Patrice had. But I had no idea what to say to help her.

  Guilt at having brought her to this point flooded me, fueling the flames. It was hard to focus on her. Every inch of my body shrieked in pain, but it was nothing compared to what Allie had suffered.

  Tell my parents I’m sorry. One last plaintive wail, and she vanished, leaving me cradling empty nothingness. The flames turned into popping firecrackers, sparks flaring then dying, black silence in their wake.

  I was buffeted, whirling in a blaze of heat and pain and blackness. The emptiness was more frightening than the bright, screeching pain. I tried to look for Allie, but she was gone.

  And I was lost with no way out.

  <<<>>>

  Devon had seen some freaky shit in his life, but the sight of Angela standing there, somehow communing with a girl in a coma, spiked to the top of the list.

  Watching her reminded him of being in church. Not the sucker’s game of turning water into wine (talk about an easy con—the mark did all the work), but more the feeling of anticipation that something miraculous could happen. He may have left the Church behind a long time ago, but he was smart enough to realize there was something out there bigger, badder, and hopefully a helluva lot smarter than humans were.

  When he was a kid, the women would come to his mom each time she returned from a visit with Daniel Kingston. They would light incense, clean her wounds, tend to her, forming a circle around her as they prayed, their rosary beads clicking like an abacus calculating a debt.

  Delivering her from the devil, Mrs. Anders had told him. Making sure the evil that was Kingston didn’t take hold. Of course, the devil who carried Kingston’s evil was Devon himself. At Mrs. Anders’ hands, he’d paid the price for his mother’s healing.

  As a kid, Devon would believe in the miracle. No matter how much pain it caused him. If it saved his mother, protected her from Kingston, he’d gladly suffer.

  But Mrs. Anders’ purification rituals never took hold for long. As soon as Devon’s mother was healed enough to stumble down to the street, she would find more drugs and return to her mindless limbo, a land where little things like raising a son or fighting off Kingston simply didn’t matter anymore. Despite the fact that by the end she had lost everything, including her looks, Kingston still wouldn’t leave her alone. Not until he broke her.

  Devon scratched at the scars on his palms. Lord, how Mrs. Anders had worked to whip the devil out of him after that. He could barely remember it, so much of that time he’d blocked out of his memory, but he remembered her tears as she’d whipped him with her rosary beads, striking him harder and harder, as if his blood could heal his mother.

  She’d failed, of course. As all her rituals and prayers had. The only lesson Devon had come away with was there was no such thing as miracles. You had to make your own way in this world, couldn’t depend on the next for anything. Especially couldn’t depend on believers like Mrs. Anders, no matter how strong their faith.

  This thing with Angela, though. This was no charade. This was the real deal.

  He thought he should have been scared, maybe even in awe, but all he felt was a vague edge of hope. Slippery, sharp, capable of slicing him if he held on too tight.

  If Angela helped him find Esme, he couldn’t give a good goddamn how she did it.

  The monitor beeping above him and the scratching of the pens across the EEG tracing to his right changed rhythms. The monitor became irregular, beep-beep-beep… beep… beep. But the pens that measured the girl’s brainwaves slowed until they barely made a squiggle on the page.

  He was no doctor, but there was no way this could be good. Angela stood rigid, staring without blinking, her face a mask.

  Then the alarms began to shriek—three different ones at once. He glanced up. The line that measured the heart
beat had gone flat.

  The girl was dying. What did that mean for Angela?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Hands gripped my wrist, spinning me in the dark and toward a deafening light. A wave of white-hot lava seared through me.

  “Shit, Angela, you okay?”

  It was Devon. I broke free from Allie, collapsing into his arms. He braced me as he pulled me behind the curtain separating the bed spaces, then whipped it shut just as two nurses and a resident ran to Allie’s bedside.

  I heard the alarms, knew they were too late. Nausea doubled me over, but Devon held me upright. He guided me across to the nurses’ station, where we watched the ICU staff try to resuscitate Allie. “I’m taking you down to the ER.”

  “No.” The syllable was a struggle. I was sweating and shaking and needed to pee. But I ignored all that. My eyes were scratchy and dry. I blinked, trying to focus. “How long?”

  “Almost half an hour.”

  Holy shit. A chill raced over me, knocking my teeth together as the implications hit me. This was bad. Very, very bad. This was my-life-was-fucked-forever bad.

  “Angela? Jesus, you’re white as a—”

  I was going to be sick. I pushed myself up, leaning against his chest, and swayed.

  “Get me out of here,” I whispered, unable to trust my legs to carry me from the unit. He led me into the hallway. I bolted into the public restroom and hurled into the toilet, not even bothering to close the door behind me.

  Behind me, I heard water running, then Devon handed me a wad of wet paper towels. I staggered to my feet, flushed and, shaking off his help, rinsed my face, gargled. When I looked in the mirror I saw a wraith—dark eyes burning through pasty white flesh, lips colorless, sweat matting my hair.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Inside there—”

  My senses reeled, on overload, unable to process everything I’d experienced with Allie when she… God, I couldn’t bring myself to even think it. It sounded crazy. Dark spots circled through my vision, and my stomach flip-flopped. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk. I need some juice or something.”