The Devil's Dream: Book One

by David Beers

  "Right now we think he could be heading to six cities. Realistically, four. All of them across the east coast."

  "What are they?"

  "Boston, Durham, Atlanta, and Daytona."

  The large stone sign written onto the grassy side of a bridge, huge like the Hollywood letters, flashed in Jeffrey's mind—'Daytona Beach'.

  "Why?"

  "Family members live in all of those cities. If what his ex-wife told us is true, then he's going back to work. We didn't try much rehabilitation on him in that cell, so it would make sense."

  "What do the police presences look like in those cities?" Jeffrey asked. This mattered, the rest were just questions to figure out what they knew. If cops were crawling around the city like ants on a carcass then things were going to be much harder for both Brand and Jeffrey.

  "We're trying to keep it strong but quiet, behind the scenes. We don't want to scare him into hiding."

  "Well, I'm pulling into my little vacation resort right now. We'll have to continue this conversation later. Please feel free to call whenever, Agent Moore."

  He hung up the phone without waiting to hear anything back.

  Jeffrey parked the car, looking around at what he had called a resort. There were palm trees, all of them sticking out of the gray asphalt. Nothing else at this place resembled anything of a resort. The motel in front of him had rooms where the doors faced the parking lot rather than inside hallways, and Jeffrey knew that the doors would open with old metal keys instead of plastic cards. This is where he would write his book, and that was fine with him. He didn't want the ability to order room service or little drinks with umbrellas being brought up to him every hour. Here, if he wanted hooch, he'd have to go out and get it himself. Plus, drinking in a shit hole like this was just depressing.

  He was in the right city, now he needed to find out where the grandson lived. Then he would just wait. Sooner or later Brand would show up and if Jeffrey looked a little harder than the cops, he would see him.

  The book would sell, Jeffrey understood that. His agent understood it too. The only thing that troubled them was the potential for backlash at what would transpire. Jeffrey was going to watch it happen. He'd tell the story second by second, writing it down, and looking on as people died.

  Jeffrey opened the car door and stepped out into the rain.

  Who was he to stop someone like Brand? Who was anyone to attempt halting perhaps the greatest experiment in Earth's history? A man had dedicated his life to bringing back someone he loved, and just because Jeffrey had the ability to report him, tell on him, he should? He had already thought about what he would say on the talk shows, on the news programs, in front of a grand jury if it should go there. It was the police's job to catch criminals; it was Jeffrey's job to observe what they did. More, this wasn't a criminal like Charles Manson, this was a man who loved what he had lost—and if no one else in the world could deny him that, which apparently they couldn't—who was Jeffrey to do it? A mere writer with one book to his name. No, he wouldn't sacrifice genius for the world's morality.

  When photographers went out into the wild, intent on capturing the safari in their lenses, they didn't interrupt nature. They were there to observe, just like Jeffrey.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Jeffrey Dillan had balls, without a doubt, but Allison thought he may have overestimated how big they actually were. She asked about the files' location because she wanted to test his arrogance, not that she had any doubt of their location—they had all been picked up five hours before she even called Dillan.

  He wasn't quite on Dali's level of conceit, but close. She liked that because it made him predictable. She knew he had taken quite a large stash of files with him on his 'vacation', the agents reading through them were already noticing huge gaps. She could think of a few reasons why he would take those files, but light reading wasn't one of them.

  Allison would deal with that later, because their car was pulling into Rally Allen's neighborhood. She flew out with a few people, leaving the rest of the operation intact in Phoenix. Allison wanted to hear for herself what Matthew Brand told Rally, wanted to see the woman's face as she relayed the message. Texas wasn't far from Phoenix and she needed to understand exactly what the relationship was between Rally and her ex-husband. She'd spoken to the woman over the phone, listened to the recording of her initial report to the police as well. From her history, Rally seemed to be an honest person. She cooperated fully with the F.B.I. last time, even attended the entire trial and testified—dry eyed—to help put Brand away.

  Had ten years changed that? That's what Allison needed to find out, and if she felt the same about her ex, then maybe she would be willing to help again, in a larger role than she currently played.

  Is that what you really need to find out? Or should you be finding out if Jerry is getting a divorce lawyer? Should you be trying to figure out if what he's saying about Marley is true, or is this stranger more important than all of that?

  She didn't want to hear those thoughts, couldn't hear them. They would have to wait until she could go home. Allison had to be present here, not at her house, not until they caught this man.

  Stop, she told herself.

  The black SUV pulled into Rally Allen's driveway. The house stood two stories and the lawn was cut short with a typical flower garden on either side of the pathway, connecting door to driveway. Brand accumulated enough money during their marriage to allow for a much more spacious accommodation; Allison had seen pictures of Rally's previous life. She didn't want to call this a downgrade but there wasn't much else she could say. Rally Allen had lived in a mansion and now she lived in a house; a house that most people would enjoy, but a house all the same.

  Allison stepped from the vehicle, her heel sounding off on the pavement. What if the woman wanted back all she had lost? What if her first call had been a reaction, and then she thought of all she could have, of all Brand might be able to give her—the most important of it all, her son?

  Allison heard the rest of the doors to the SUV close as her crew followed.

  The place smelled clean, like the lawn had been cut recently. A light breeze came across the road and the whole place suddenly reminded her of her own home. Marley and Jerry, waiting on her to come back. Were they anymore, though? Was the house that this reminded her of still hers, or would it be sold soon, and she living out of an apartment?

  Stop it.

  She rang the doorbell, the three men behind her waited silently.

  It only took a few moments and the door opened.

  A graying man stood with his hand on the doorknob. Taller, over six-foot probably. He smiled, but worry lived on his face and it looked like he didn't carry it well. To Allison, it looked like he went through his whole life without worrying, and this new situation weighed on Rally Allen's husband with a weight he had never before experienced. His eyes didn't smile, nor did his face, only his mouth forming the shape that he had been taught since a child.

  "Hi. Agent Moore, right?" He asked.

  "Yes, sir. Harold Allen?"

  "That would be me. All the rest of you?"

  "This is Agent Friedman, Agent Murray, and Agent Woods, all of them have been assigned to this particular case and are working closely with me."

  No one extended hands but Allen nodded at each name.

  "Well, Rally is inside, let's go ahead and get started. Coffee, water, or anything else?"

  "Coffee, please," Allison heard Friedman ask as they entered the house.

  The living room held no television, but was instead organized around a large coffee table that had books and magazines across it. There were extra chairs, probably pulled in from another room, so that everyone had a place to sit. The F.B.I. agents all stood behind their chairs, waiting on the lady they had come for.

  She came from the hallway, a full length sun-dress sashaying as she walked towards them.

  "Agent Moore, a pleasure to meet you," Rally said, the first one to put a hand ou
t for anyone to shake. Allison clasped it. Rally continued: "Let's all have a seat and get this started. I know it's hot in Phoenix, but I'm sure you guys don't like the Texas heat either and would like to get back."

  Allison sat down, watching as Rally found her place next to her husband, her hand naturally going to his knee.

  "What can I do for all of you?" Rally asked.

  "Ma'am, obviously I want to talk to you about Matthew Brand. I'd like to discuss your feelings on him and maybe how far you'd be willing to go to help us catch him."

  * * *

  How far would you go, Rally?

  She knew the question was coming. Matt called her first and she was his son's mother. Rally inhabited a unique place, able to help or do nothing. The police knew it, and Matt knew it too. She had never betrayed him, never acted like she would help only to sic the police on him. No, he knew from the beginning where she stood, that she would not contribute to his attempt at playing God. She had been fair to him—she owed nothing else to her ex-husband, the father of her dead child.

  Allison Moore's question seemed to hint that Rally didn't even owe him that much.

  "Hon, you alright?" Harold asked from her side.

  Her thoughts had kept her silent too long, and as she came back to the here and now—where do you go, babe? Matt used to ask her—she saw everyone looking at her.

  "How do I feel about him? That's pretty loaded. I'm not sure you guys will ever catch him if you give me the time I need to answer that. You'll never get back to doing police work."

  "Is there a Reader's Digest version?" Agent Moore asked, smiling.

  "That's what everyone wants, isn't it?" Rally smiled too. "That's okay though. That relationship doesn't interest me anymore either, and if not for his new adventure there wouldn't be any need to dredge it up, so the short version is fine."

  Rally leaned over and kissed her husband's cheek.

  "I love Matt, and I always will. I also know that he probably needs to die, or at the least be locked away in a prison that uses metal instead of glass. That's about as condensed as I can make it."

  "Why do you still love him?" An agent next to Moore asked.

  "Because I understand him. Isn't that the real reason we love anyone? Because we can relate to them, we can feel their pain and therefor make it our own? I know why Matt is doing what he is doing, even if I don't agree with it. I know why he won't stop and I know that despite his actions, it comes from a good place. His son was taken from him, our son. He wants Hilman back and has the ability to do it. It's hard to really blame him."

  The agent nodded.

  "Do you want him to do what he's doing?" Moore asked. "Do you want your son back?"

  "Do I want my son back? Do you want the air you're breathing to be here tomorrow? Would you like your heart to keep beating? Yes, I want my son back, Agent Moore, but I don't want Matt to go ahead with this. Hilman wouldn't want him to either. If, somehow, he brings back our son, Hilman will hate him. Hilman will want to be dead and probably want his father dead right there along with him. What he's doing, it's completely selfish. It's not for me. It's not for our son. It's for him to have what he can't any longer." Rally reached up to her eyes and wiped a tear away. "I'd do almost anything to have my son back, but not that."

  "You believe he can do it?" Moore asked.

  Rally looked away, thinking about what everyone said ten years ago when Matt was finally apprehended. All the news articles, the scientist commenting on the papers that were found, the police saying he would never get the chance to test his theories. "I can't pretend to know what any of the science means. I'm not sure anyone besides Matt can actually understand it. But yeah, I think he can do it. I think Matt can do anything he wants."

  "Even evade us?"

  "If he wants. Last time he didn't want to. He wanted to spit in your face and that's what he did. He killed four people before you had any idea where he was."

  "Can't argue with that. My second question, how far would you go to help catch him?

  "What do you have in mind?"

  "Well, it's clear he cares for you. He goes away for ten years and within a few hours of escaping, he is on the phone trying to speak with you. There's probably a lot he would do for you, except stop this murder spree we think he's gearing up for. If you were to get in touch with him, he'd let you come to him. He'd tell you where he is and as soon as that happens, all this is over."

  "We're not putting my wife in danger. I don't really care what the reason is or how good it will be for the country. We're just not going to do it," Harold said.

  "Even if I did agree to do something like that, which I'm not, it wouldn't work. You can't really think Matt is so stupid. I sat behind him at his trial and didn't say a word to him. Do you think he's going to believe after ten years I've fallen in love with him again?" She laughed. "I don't mean any offense, but if this is the plan you're trying to catch Matt with, he's further ahead than I ever dreamed."

  "Maybe you're right," Agent Moore said. "Sometimes I feel like he's a few light-years ahead as well, but I still have this job to do. Maybe sending you to meet him won't work. He'd know it was a trap. But if you called him, if you spoke to him, even that would be better than nothing. Start with one phone call, talk to him, gain a bit of trust from him. We won't be here. You call us when it's over and tell us what was said."

  "You have a wiretap on the phone," Harold said.

  "True, but that doesn't mean she can't call us and tell us what she felt about the call. Wiretaps aren't going to give us the information that is going on inside your head. You start with one call, and then the next day maybe you give him another. You're not asking to find him. You're just asking to talk to him."

  The room was silent when she finished.

  Rally looked beyond Agent Moore at the wall. Call Matt. Talk to Matt. The only conversation they could have would consist of her begging him to stop. To give it up. He wouldn't listen to her, not for a moment. He was Ahab and this his White Whale. Even so, he would talk to her. He would talk and when she said the phone was tapped but no one was at her house, he would believe her because Rally never lied to him. She'd left him. Reported him. Stood in the court room and put her hand over the Bible before telling the world that he deserved the death penalty because he would never stop. During all that she hadn't said one falsehood to him, so this could work.

  "I can't lie to him," she said still staring at the wall. "I won't lie to him."

  "No one's asking you to lie. We're asking for you to talk to him. He'll talk, Mrs. Allen. He'll tell you things that no one else knows, and you won't have to lie to get it out of him."

  Rally looked back at the agent. "I'll do it. I'll make the first call although I don't know if he'll be there for a second. You really don't understand what you're dealing with here, Agent Moore. Ten years ago the last person in charge of this thing didn't either. He got lucky. I don't think you will."

  * * *

  Press conferences were supposed to create transparency between the public and whoever was speaking. They were supposed to disseminate information from the powerful to the weak. They were supposed to help level the playing field when it came to that all-important currency of knowledge.

  They were all shams though. All press conferences were fun-houses full of smoke and mirrors, sending images every which way so even if someone saw the truth they wouldn't recognize it. They would think it only another image in the indecipherable pictures that came down from on high.

  On high today was Allison Moore, F.B.I.

  She stood behind the podium wearing a blue shirt and skirt, a white professional button down, and her hair hanging around her face. "We're asking for anyone who sees the man in the pictures that are being given out to press organizations to come forward. Call our dedicated phone number. Do not try to apprehend the subject. Do not follow him. Just call."

  Matthew's picture had been on the news long before this, but he guessed there was now an official picture to be on t
he lookout for. Is that all this was, a public plea for help? No, no. That's what the fun-house made it seem like. Sure, they wanted help if they could get it, but they were probably already being inundated with more calls than they could handle. This was to make him feel safe. To make him feel like they were far away.

  The small hotel room was clean, if dreary. The light over his bed did a poor job of revealing the room but he kept the curtains drawn. The bathroom was probably ten feet wide, little more than a box, but still bigger than the Silo he had lived inside.

  Allison Moore, on the television begging for help.

  Did that mean they knew where he was?

  He reached for the computer he'd bought a few days ago, figuring it safer to buy something once than to continually visit the public library. It had taken him an hour or so to get caught up on the intricacies of anonymous surfing, but he understood it now. When he logged on, his I.P. address continually bounced around the world and any packets of information he sent out either purposefully or accidentally would destruct after a short time. He was invisible on the computer, cloaked from whatever prying eyes Agent Moore might have out there.

  He typed in Allison Moore and began processing the results. His eyes took them in and his brain catalogued them quicker than his hands could click the track-pad. He drank in all of the information the Internet held on her. After a time, he reached for the remote on the bed and put the television on mute. The press conference ended and now that he wasn't both listening to the T.V. and reading off his computer, he could pick up information faster.

  Every picture, every story, every status update—Matthew read it all, building a woman in his head as close to the real person as humanly possible.