Farewell to Dreams: A Novel of Fatal Insomnia

by CJ Lyons

  “Eight and nine.” He finished pouring the dog food and water and leaned against the table, watching me as I shamelessly examined his personal effects. “You’re the first person outside family that I’ve brought here in a long time.”

  It was an admission as much as an invitation, but I didn’t RSVP. With regrets. Given everything going on in my life, it didn’t seem fair to him. Or me.

  The dog gave a little whine, and Ryder let him back in, pausing to get down on the floor and rub his belly. “Always wanted a dog.”

  “He’s not yours. He’ll go back to Esme when we find her.” I was surprised by the harshness in my voice. He was too, his gaze bouncing up to study me.

  He climbed to his feet, ending up so close to me that his chest brushed mine when he drew in a breath. I thought he was going to kiss me. But he didn’t. Instead, he studied my face as if reading an obscure language.

  “You believe that. That we’ll find her. I admire that, with everything you’ve seen, you can still trust, still believe.” His tone dropped until it sounded like it had back when we were inside St. Tim’s.

  He’d misunderstood. What I felt wasn’t anything to do with God or a higher power. It wasn’t that kind of belief. It was necessity. I’d never rest, not with Patrice’s voice rattling around in my head, and she’d never rest, not until we found Esme.

  “You’re wrong.” I gave a little shake of my head. “But you do. Believe. I saw you in that church. Even after everything you’ve seen and done, you still think there’s a God?” My tone skirted incredulity, fell back to a plea for understanding.

  “How could I not? Think about last night. First, I, master of the microwave,” he nodded to the appliance over the stove, “inexplicably crack my head open on the exact same night that you, despite your family and ex-husband waiting for you, decide to work late.”

  It was because of my family, not in spite of. But I didn’t interrupt.

  “You chose my chart,” he continued, “out of all the other patients, came to my room, put up with my bullshit long enough for us to both be there when Patrice arrived.” From his tone, he truly believed what he was saying. “Do you have any idea how many dominoes had to fall at the precise time and place to make all that happen?” He shrugged, not quite smiling, but enough to reveal that elusive dimple. “How can you not believe in a higher power after all that?”

  It was my turn to shrug. I almost hated to disappoint him, but I gave him the truth. “Trust no one, that’s all I believe in.”

  He tilted his head at my words. “You trust me.”

  I conceded the point. “I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t trust you.”

  “Okay, maybe trust isn’t the word. Maybe it’s faith. Faith in something more than what we see and know.”

  “Faith?” I scoffed. The conversation was veering into emotional dark alleys I had no desire to wander. “Where do I find that? The corner 7-Eleven? Trust is all I have to give you. If that’s not enough…”

  “It’s enough.” Another heavy silence, as if we both wanted something we couldn’t have.

  I was about ready to say to hell with the craziness going on inside my head, to hell with good sense and fair play and all that bullshit, and kiss him, when the dog nudged himself between us. The moment vanished.

  Who knows? Maybe I’d imagined it. Believing that was the safest bet.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Devon left St. Timothy’s and pushed his way through the crowd watching the cops and firefighters, the rising sun casting a red glow that added to the lights of the emergency vehicles. You’d think it was a goddamn block party the way the music blasters and laughter cut the air.

  At the Tower he was stopped before he even stepped foot on the entrance walk. Smartass kid who thought he might grow up to be tough some day. Lucky Ryder had taken Devon’s gun.

  “Tell Tyree I’m coming up.”

  “No one goes up,” the kid argued. A few older Royales had joined them. They knew Devon, watched to see what would happen.

  Devon had no time for this shit. As the kid squared up in front of him—had no one taught the idiot how to fight?—Devon took him out with a single elbow to the throat. Kid gurgled from the sidewalk as Devon stepped over his body.

  “Way to go, Runt.” Tyree himself appeared at the entrance to the Tower. “Still wasting your time on fun and games.”

  Devon climbed the steps to meet Tyree. “It’s no game. You know what Jess and Esme mean to me.”

  Tyree flexed his arms, muscles rippling beneath his Under Armour long-sleeved shirt. He wore no jacket, impervious to the cold. At least, that was the impression he was trying to give. No wonder his followers went around severely underdressed for the weather. Trying to live up to Tyree’s image.

  Games. Twenty years since Tyree had taken control of the Royales, and it was still all just games.

  An image of Jess, lying in her own blood, flashed before Devon. “You ready to help me save Esme? Or you gonna keep on standing in my way?”

  Tyree narrowed his eyes, then shrugged dramatically. “Come with me.” He spun on his heel and entered the Tower, not looking back to see if Devon followed.

  Eleven years ago Devon would have had to hustle to catch up with the larger man, but not now. Now, within a few paces, Devon was walking side by side with Tyree, matching him step for step.

  Tyree nodded to one of his guards who stood before a metal door. One of the tunnel entrances. The kid opened the door and held it as Tyree and Devon passed through. No one else. The door clanged shut behind them, but the steps leading down to the tunnels were lit by LED lanterns spaced every few feet.

  “You know the cops and firefighters are swarming all over this place,” Devon reminded Tyree. He figured if Tyree was going to kill him, he’d do it where his people could watch, someplace that emphasized his power, like his little throne room upstairs on the roof.

  “They’re over near the courthouse right now. Got themselves a grid system they’re following. Makes it easy for me to keep track of them. We’ll have plenty of privacy, don’t worry.”

  Devon knew better than to press Tyree. Man was like a bull—if you wanted something from him, best way not to get it was to force him into a corner. He’d learned that the hard way with his and Jess’s future on the line. Wasn’t about to risk Esme’s as well.

  So he bit back his pride and his worry and followed Tyree into the dark. To his surprise, Tyree led him back to the abandoned refrigerator unit where they’d found the children last night. But the more Devon thought about it, the more that made sense.

  “You knew the kids were here. You and Mrs. Anders,” Devon said. “She’s back at her old witch-hunter tricks? Performing exorcisms, making innocent kids believe they’re evil demon spawn?”

  Tyree stopped outside the closed door to the refrigeration unit. “She did what she did because she was trying to protect you. And your mother.”

  “Don’t buy it, not anymore. Maybe you could convince me when I was eight that I was the real problem, that I was to blame for what Kingston did to my mom, but I know better now. Mrs. Anders, Jess’s mom, all those women, even the damn priest—they did what they did to save themselves, and they didn’t care if my mother paid the price.”

  “They didn’t just save themselves,” Tyree said in a flat tone. “They saved everyone. Think of what Kingston could have done if he got it in his head. White men like him, filled with power and glory, they’re used to getting what they want. Sometimes you just gotta learn that the best way to get what you want—what you need—is to let them have it. Then everyone wins. Your mama, she just never could bring herself to understand that.”

  “But you do, right, Tyree? You parade around like you’re the king of the Royales, when all you really are is a lackey, taking orders from Daniel Kingston, doing his dirty work.”

  Tyree didn’t respond. He merely smiled, teeth gleaming in the lantern light. He swung the door to the walk-in refrigerator open, ignoring the crime-scene tap
e hanging limp to one side.

  The stench of blood hit Devon. Blood and other bodily fluids best left unnamed. Tyree shoved him over the threshold.

  The room was dark except for a single flashlight in the far corner, propped up against the wall so its light shone up, creating more shadows than it exorcised. Beside it, leaning up against the corner was a cop. His hands and legs were bound, his mouth covered with duct tape. He glared at Tyree.

  Tyree pulled a .45 semiautomatic and used it to prod Devon farther into the room.

  Devon stumbled and almost tripped over a body. Blood squished beneath his shoes. Tyree kicked one of the plastic LED lights across the threshold to illuminate the rest of the room.

  Mrs. Anders lay at Devon’s feet, blood covering her chest and belly. She’d been gutted.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Being with Rossi, here in his home, was surreal on so many levels. Ryder felt comfortable around her, even when their conversation slid sideways from his usual pickup banter into a discussion of trust and faith—things he didn’t talk to anyone about, much less a woman he’d met less than twelve hours earlier.

  Some men find God in the darkness, some find only themselves. Ryder had been in and out of so many black holes that he’d found and lost a thousand gods. Some nights he lay awake, certain he was still buried inside a mountain, wandering in the dark, and that this world he woke to every day was the dream, not the reality.

  Hard to care much about what happens in a dream… but, still, he managed. He was a good cop, the kind of cop who wouldn’t have been doing the job if he wasn’t sure he could make a difference. Same reason why he’d been a good soldier.

  Only lately, it was getting harder and harder to believe.

  On good days Ryder chiseled away at the mountain of corruption that threatened the innocent citizens of Cambria City, hammering in the dark with a badge instead of a pickax, fighting for a city built on coal and the blood of the men who dug it. On bad days… well, lately there had been far too many bad days. Days when the good guys didn’t just lose. They didn’t even bother showing up.

  Not Rossi. She gave her all. Ryder had the feeling that wasn’t just last night, but every day.

  He fed her breakfast—a mash-up of eggs, hash browns, salsa, cheese, and sausage all scrambled together in one skillet, eaten from the same skillet because he didn’t have any clean plates—and plied her with questions about the Advocacy Center, a topic he knew she wouldn’t mind talking about.

  Some of the cases she told him about—he’d been a cop for going on ten years—he wasn’t shocked. More discouraged. What people did, to themselves, to the ones they loved, to children.

  “What’s going to happen to the kids from the tunnel?” he asked as they loaded the dishwasher together. They even both agreed on putting the silverware in handle up, something his sister was always fussing at him about. “Even if we find their families, we can’t just give them back. Not after they were abandoned the way they were.”

  She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand. “Pediatrics is full, so I can’t keep them there.”

  “Tyree was right about one thing. You can’t put them into the foster care system. Separating them—it would about kill them.” He surprised himself with his vehemence. It wasn’t his job to play social worker. But those kids, the way they barely made eye contact, much less talked. They were so young. Throwing them into the system the way they were now… so damaged and vulnerable. It would kill them.

  “I’m working on it. One of my nurses is watching them today while our psychologist evaluates them. After that…”

  He waited, assuming she’d shrug or utter some kind of throwaway cliché, like “it’s out of our hands,” words intended to let people off the hook and assuage their guilt.

  Not Rossi. Instead, she glanced up at him, meeting his gaze, and said, “After that, well, we might just have to get creative. How many bedrooms do you have here, Ryder?”

  She smiled, but she was also halfway serious. He couldn’t help but smile back.

  “You know, in his own warped way, I think that’s exactly what Tyree was doing when he hid them in the tunnels,” she said.

  “Might help if we knew what he thought he was protecting them from.” Ryder glanced at the clock. Six twenty. Too early to try to talk to Kingston. And he definitely couldn’t go smelling like this—sweat and blood and grime and the chemical stink left from the explosion in the tunnel. Not to mention a shirt soiled and jacket ripped.

  Ozzie had curled up on a corner of the couch, watching them with one eye, the other drifting shut as he made a snuffling sound that was almost a snore. Rossi plunked down beside the dog, scratching him behind his ears. “Will he be okay here?” she asked. “I should head over to Good Sam soon.”

  “Yeah, he’ll be fine in the yard. No rain today, they say. If you don’t mind waiting a few minutes, I’ll walk over with you. Just want to grab a quick shower. Unless you’d like to…” He purposely left the invitation open-ended, interested to see where she’d take it.

  She dismissed him with the wave of a drowsy hand and curled her body around the dog, using Ozzie as a pillow. Ryder shook his head and climbed the steps to his bedroom. Couldn’t help but imagine a dozen more-attractive what-if scenarios than stripping off his filthy clothing, straining sore muscles, and stepping into the shower alone.

  Those fantasies fled fifteen minutes later when he returned downstairs and saw Rossi, fully relaxed for the first time since he’d met her. More than relaxed, vulnerable. First time he’d seen her without her guard up.

  He risked a touch, only a touch, of the woman sleeping on the couch. Just a finger, a gentle caress of the area where her neck lay bare, right below the corner of her jaw. Warm, she was so very warm, almost feverish, as if she were more alive than any other woman he’d ever met. Her pulse hummed beneath his touch, steady, strong. Reassuring.

  Turning his back on the clock, giving in to temptation and exhaustion, he sank down onto the sofa beside her. The dog whined, shifting his weight, and Rossi responded by sliding closer to Ryder. Curling his arm around Rossi’s body, his heart and breathing matching hers, he closed his eyes and dared to sleep.

  <<<>>>

  “What the hell!” Devon whirled on Tyree. “You killed her. She might have known where Esme is, and you killed her.”

  Tyree frowned. “What makes you think she knew where Esme is?”

  “Every path I go down searching for Esme leads to the Kingstons. Daniel is too old now, but I figured if Leo is following in his father’s footsteps, then he might be using the same place where his father used to take my mother. Daniel Kingston would come for her, take her from me—or sometimes Mrs. Anders or the other women would fetch her for Kingston, take her away. My mom said it was her very own special hell, used to mumble about being surrounded by devils while angels sang.” He trailed off. It was a long shot but his last lead to find Esme. Now even that long shot was gone.

  “Listen to yourself, Runt. Your mama was strung-out, crack crazy. She didn’t know what she was saying half the time. Besides, I didn’t kill the old lady.” Tyree nodded to the cop. “He did. Trying to get her to tell him what she knew.”

  Devon frowned, not understanding anything about this scenario. Which was exactly what Tyree wanted—Devon off-balance.

  “Think you’re so smart,” Tyree jeered. “You have no clue. Those kids you so-called rescued last night? Mrs. A and me, we were the ones who saved them. Hid them from the real monster. And we paid a price for it. That’s why he,” Tyree nodded to the cop, “came after Mrs. A. To see what all she knew. Next on his hit list is taking care of all those kids.”

  “Did she hide Esme as well?” Devon asked, staring at the old lady’s corpse, wondering what secrets she’d taken to the grave. He should have been glad she was dead, after all the pain she’d caused, but he wasn’t. The long night had sapped his strength. All he had left was enough to care about Esme.

  “Nope. She would’ve to
ld me if she had.”

  Damn. “Why did you and Mrs. Anders take the kids to start with? Who were you protecting them from? Leo? His father?”

  “Those kids ain’t got no one else. Their mothers are all gone, leaving them behind as witnesses. Me and Kingston’s pet cops, we were meant to clean up after, get rid of the kids, but they’re my people, my responsibility, so I saved them. I took the risk and told Mrs. A to keep them safe, until you came along and ruined everything. Now’s there’s blood being shed, and it’s on your head.”

  Devon tried to parse his words. “Cleaning up? Kids as witnesses?” He remembered Angela telling him about the victims who’d ended up with their minds destroyed—and how no one had reported any of the kids as missing. “Kingston. He took their mothers—”

  “Life in the big city hasn’t smartened you up any, Runt. Kingston’s too old. And he’s sick. Before tonight, it’s been months since he’s left his mansion.”

  “Leo.” Rage surged through Devon at the name. “And you’re protecting him. Cleaning up his mess like some kind of trash man.”

  It made sense. Daniel Kingston owned the Tower, would have eyes, ears in the place, some way to protect his investment. Especially his investment in his lily-white son and heir, who just happened to be a psychopathic serial rapist and homicidal maniac. Who better than Tyree?

  “Did Leo kill Jess? Is he the one after Esme?” Devon was guessing, but from the scowl on Tyree’s face, he was right. “What happened, Tyree? Did Esme see him kill Jess?”

  “This is none of your business anymore. It’s between me and Leo. I’ll deal with it in my own good time.”

  So it was Leo. Like father, like son. Both destroying the lives of the people who lived in the Tower. But Tyree’s betrayal was worse—as bad as Mrs. Anders’ and the other women who’d offered his mother up to Daniel Kingston. Devon’s gaze measured Tyree in the dim light. “What size you wear, Tyree?”