Requiem & Reverie (The Sandman Duet Book 2)

by Keri Lake

  With a huff, I toss the phone on the bed, and it lights up again. A different number this time. One I recognize.

  Dale’s number.

  Let’s try again, Nola. I’ve left the address where you’ll find your son tucked inside your pillowcase.

  You’ve slept every night with his whereabouts for about a week.

  My stomach sinks, pulses of shock beating through my muscles, as I stare down at it. Dale? All this time? A bitter hatred fills my mouth like a potent liquor I refuse to swallow back.

  No.

  I shake my head, but there’s no other explanation. It’s his number. And who else would be privy to this little game, but the very person who’s orchestrating it?

  I have to will myself to move, my body still locked in a state of confusion and disgust.

  Yet, at the same time, a thrill winds in my chest at the prospect that Oliver is alive. A second chance! I take a moment to read each line again, absorbing every word.

  A week. A week, I’ve had Oliver’s location hidden inside my fucking pillowcase? And Dale was the one who put it there? Why? Why would a man I trusted have anything to do with this? Because he’s a rotten bastard, that’s why. I want to throw up at the thought of that, but I’ve puked enough, as it is, and my ass is already halfway to the door.

  It doesn’t matter who took him. I’m getting my son back.

  Shoving my feet into my boots, laces untied, I swipe my keys from the nightstand and tuck the phone into my back pocket. Once out the door, I throw on my coat and head toward the staircase, instead of the elevator. My head is spinning as I round each level, my heart slamming into my ribs.

  I’m not calling Jonah this time. I can’t trust him. And Voss would talk me out of going.

  As I continue my descent, I click off the GPS on my phone to be sure he isn’t following after me.

  What happens tonight is fate. My fate. My penance for lying to my parents. For being a shitty wife. A shitty mom. Even if I end up lying on the ground somewhere, holding one of those white flowers with my eyeballs removed, as long as Oliver is safe, I’m okay with that.

  He’ll be safe with Jonah. I’ll send my brother a text once I arrive at the location, to be sure he’ll find Oliver, and maybe if I’m lucky enough, he’ll find me, too.

  Slamming through the hotel entrance, I race to my car in the lot, where I fumble to get the damn thing unlocked. Once that’s accomplished, I throw back the door and slump into the driver’s seat, scarcely taking the time to catch my breath as I start up the vehicle and squeal out of the lot, back to my house to search for the address.

  19

  Voss

  I reach the Conservatory about twenty minutes before the doors close for the night. Only a few cars sit in the parking lot, and my gaze is glued to the rear entrance, watching for their owners.

  Minutes pass before a blonde leaves the building, followed by a smaller group, possibly students, judging by their ages. Behind them, Simon Jeffries exits with a briefcase, looking as shifty as he did the day before, when I met him. Everyone in that department seems a little strange, but I suppose when a person spends the majority of their day peeling skin off dead animals, it begins to take its toll.

  A security guard strolls up to the door behind him, locking it from the inside.

  No one else exits.

  “Fuck.” Resting the heels of my hands over my eyes, I let out an exasperated breath. It’s not until I lower my hand that I notice the man standing outside my window, and my muscles tense for a moment, ready to fight.

  Simon Jeffries offers a slight smile and holds up his hands. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

  With a small bit of confusion, I roll down my window, prepared to strike his windpipe if I have to.

  “Listen … you asked around yesterday. About a guy? Mid-forties?”

  “Yeah. You know him?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything there. But … I might be able to help you.” He adjusts his glasses and clears his throat. “Come back tomorrow, and I’ll take you to where he lives.”

  “Why don’t you just tell me now, and save yourself some time.”

  “I would need to access files, and as you can see, they’ve closed up for the evening.”

  “A kid’s life is on the line, here. Why’n’t you go ask the security guard to let you back in. Tell him you forgot something.”

  “The individual you’re looking for has hurt others?”

  “Yes.”

  “I suspected as much.”

  “How so?”

  “I had a feeling about him.”

  “So, you understand the urgency. I need to know where to find him. Tonight.”

  “You’re asking me to do something illegal, Mister Voss. And last I checked, you’re not the authorities. Please come back tomorrow morning. I’m happy to show you then.”

  My instincts tell me to strap this little prick down onto a concrete slab and torment him until he talks, but I made a promise to myself a long time ago not to go after innocents. “What time?”

  “Early. I typically arrive before opening, to get a head start on some work. Say about five-thirty, or so?”

  “Five-thirty,” I echo. “You’ll be here.”

  “With bells on. I’ll provide you with the address we have on file then.”

  “Does he work in your department? No one seems to know who he is.”

  “He’s not someone most pay attention to, but I’ve had my eye on him for quite some time now.”

  “Fine. Five-thirty tomorrow.”

  As I roll up the window, my phone dings. Security cameras picked up movement in Nola’s house, and I scroll through the different rooms, until I find Nola in her bedroom, tearing through her pillow, as if searching for something.

  We’d agreed to have her stay at the hotel for the night. What the hell is she doing home?

  I glance up briefly to catch the silver car exiting the lot, and pause. I’ve seen that car before, the busted-out taillight and the co-exist sticker attached to the trunk. It’s the same car I nearly ran into in Nola’s driveway, a couple weeks back.

  Throwing the car into drive, I prepare to follow him, but another glance down at the interior cameras shows Nola’s left the house. I check the outdoor cameras to find her car isn’t in the driveway.

  Perhaps she’s heading back to the hotel.

  I click on the GPS tracker to see where she’s headed, but her location doesn’t pop up.

  What the fuck?

  Hitting the gas, I tear out of the parking lot, and call her phone. Straight to voicemail.

  “Motherfuck!” I call the number again, which goes straight to voicemail a second time. “Goddamn this woman!”

  I follow the path back to my hotel and scan the lot for any sign of her Jeep.

  Nothing.

  Keeping my eyes peeled, I head toward her house, taking note of every damn car that passes me along the way, until I reach her driveway.

  The house is empty. A few lights are left on, but the motion detector indicates no movement inside.

  I review the footage, rewinding it to minutes before, and see that she exited her driveway and drove off in the opposite direction.

  Car in reverse, I back out, then head in the same direction.

  Carl must’ve contacted her. Bastard must’ve gotten her phone number, somehow, and contacted her. There’s no way she would’ve left, otherwise.

  How?

  My mind is spinning a million miles a second, trying to make a connection, but all that comes to mind is that silver car at Nola’s house a few weeks back. She said he’d stopped in to check on her. He’d driven her home from the bar that night.

  Simon. The little prick knows more than he’s letting on, and I should’ve gone with my gut, should’ve strung the bastard up and watched him bleed out, until he told me what I needed to know. He has some connection to Carl, one I’d probably have been able to slice out of him eventually.

  That’s what I get f
or trying to be a nice fucking guy.

  A normal guy.

  Normal doesn’t work in my family. And it sure as hell doesn’t work for me. It never has. I’ve had to be ruthless and cunning, always staying one step ahead. I’m ripping myself apart as I drive around, aimlessly searching for Nola’s Jeep.

  I pull off into a Dunkin Donuts parking lot, click on the camera app again, and review the video I watched back at the Conservatory. The one of her tearing apart her pillows. There was something she was searching for back at the house, and she seems to find that something stuffed inside her pillowcase, before she punches something into her phone and leaves.

  But whatever she found is still lying on the bed.

  Hammering the gas, I head back to Nola’s house. My pulse rate feels like it’s about to gallop away into the sunset, my hands are sweaty against the wheel, and by the time I reach her house, I’m so goddamn wired and pumped full of adrenaline, I could punch through a brick wall.

  Once inside Nola’s bedroom, I find the small scrap of paper lying on her bed. It holds an address that I quickly program into my phone before flipping it over to find Sweet Dreams written on the other side.

  The address must be a trap.

  20

  Nola

  Sickness twists inside my stomach, as I listen to my phone navigate the directions to Oliver. The mind is a fucked-up place, the way it entices us to see things we can’t bear to face. Horrible things, like me arriving at this place, only to find my son screaming for me, as he lays cut open and bleeding out, just like one of my nightmares.

  All because of Dale? It still doesn’t make sense to me, but when I get my hands on that slimy bastard, he’s going to wish he’d never messed with my kid.

  Knuckles white, gripping tight to the wheel, I grind my teeth, willing those thoughts away, and try to stay focused on the directions. It’s a wonder I’ve managed to keep within my own damn lane as much as my hands are shaking.

  The city morphs into open fields as I head toward Will County, which is about an hour from my house.

  “Please be alive,” I whisper, my voice shaky and brimming with the terror I’m desperately trying to hold back.

  Thirty minutes later, I’m driving through an old town that looks like something straight out of the fifties. Businesses line the main street, which stretches ahead of me for about a mile into the darkness beyond. Only one traffic light, smack in the center of town. My father brought us to this place when we were kids, to pick blueberries at one of the local farms, and I remember we had lunch at the small diner that passes me on the right. All lights are off, except for the streetlamps.

  Place is a ghost town.

  The directions end at the last business, before the road opens up to a highway that’s flanked by open darkness at either side. Fields, I guess, though it’s hard to see much. I turn the car into the parking lot for what looks like an old automotive garage. The only other cars in the lot are beaten up, with smashed in front ends.

  Taking a moment to settle my nerves, I kill the engine and lights and breathe deeply through my nose. I like to think that I’m a fairly strong woman, but knowing what he does to his victims leaves a cold stab of fear in my chest—one that doesn’t diminish knowing it’s Dale.

  Once, when Oliver was little, and Denny hadn’t yet come home from work, I heard a crashing sound in the lower part of the house. Every bone in my body shook as I imagined someone breaking into our home while we slept. The noise turned out to be Denny, arriving home earlier than usual, having been laid off from his first job. However, in those split seconds, I contemplated all the ways I would protect my baby, and came to the conclusion that there was no pain I wouldn’t endure just to make sure he was safe.

  No pain I wouldn’t endure. No hell I wouldn’t walk through for him.

  Flipping open the glove box reveals the knife I grabbed from under my pillow, and I stuff it into my pocket alongside my pepper spray.

  A pathetic arsenal of weapons, but it’s better than nothing.

  I climb from the Jeep, and on wobbly legs, I make my way toward the building, which stands quiet and dark, set off from the long strip of businesses, as if it doesn’t belong with the others. My blood is cold. My hands are ice and sweat. Breaths arrive so fast, I feel like I could pass out any minute. Scanning the lot shows no sign of Dale’s car anywhere. As I reach the entrance, I glance around at the dark emptiness. With every step, a voice inside my head tells me to go back, but then I remember my son didn’t have that choice. Whatever fear this place stirs, it’s nothing compared to what Oliver has undoubtedly suffered for days.

  Still, I know this is a bad idea. I know it was foolish of me to come here alone. In spite of my head telling me otherwise, I’m not a total idiot, because I did leave the address out intentionally, in hopes that once Voss returned, he might stumble upon it.

  Because I don’t actually have a death wish. I just want my son, and I don’t trust anyone else to retrieve him.

  Not even Voss.

  The front door is open, and a bell signals my entry into what looks like a waiting room, with a front desk and chairs lining the wall, and magazines scattered across a table.

  Pausing, I tip my head, peering into a dark corridor beyond the desk, which I assume leads out into the main part of the garage. I want to call out for Oliver, but not until I’ve swept the place first. As a comfort, I brush my hand over the bulge in my pocket, where the pocketknife still sits. It’s always taken a slight bit of effort to flip open the blade, but its small enough to stay concealed.

  With the flashlight on my phone, I slice through darkness, muscles poised for anything that might jump out at me, then pad toward the back of the building, past the front desk, swallowing the lump in my throat. This feels too familiar. Walking down a dark corridor with doors at either side—one of which always leads to my son’s brutalized body in my nightmares. Fear settles in my chest with an ice-cold knot that branches beneath my ribs, turning my body numb.

  Coming to a stop in front of a door, I grip the knob and hold my breath, before opening it into a dark office. I angle the light from my phone and see outdated furniture and a messy desk, with papers scattered across it.

  Keeping on, I arrive at a second door, opening it into what looks like a break room, or something, with a single round table surrounded by chairs, and a coffee pot set out on a card table.

  A second glass door ahead leads to three car bays. One vehicle sits atop a hoist. Another, without wheels, on a jack.

  “Oliver?” I call out into the darkness, sweeping the light over the space.

  “Well, hello.” The gravelly voice, like that of a smoker, comes from behind, and a hand smelling of smoke, metal and grease slaps over my mouth.

  My scream beats against the stranger’s hand, and I wriggle in his grasp. Another man comes into view, wearing a mechanic’s suit with a name patch that says Duane, and a cigarette hanging from his lips. With dark and gray peppered hair, gray stubble and harsh lines in his face, I’m guessing he’s pushing sixty. Not at all the way Voss described his uncle.

  His eyes lower from mine, dipping toward my breasts, and he tips his head. Reaching out a grease-stained hand, he draws a line down my chest and stuffs his hand down the front of my shirt.

  Disgusted, I turn my eyes away from him, while he takes a minute to cup my breast.

  “What have we here? Looks like a little mouse searching for a piece of cheese.”

  The man behind me chuckles and rubs his palm over my belly, before tightening his grip across my midsection. “Prettiest damn mouse I ever seen.”

  “You come here looking for something, pretty mouse?” The one standing before me leans forward and sniffs my throat. “You smell damn good.”

  “I want my son!” I mumble behind the hand of the one holding me captive. In an awkward curl of my hand, I try not to draw too much attention, as I snake my fingers into the pocket of my jeans for my knife.

  “What’s that?”


  The hand lowers just enough to let me suck in a breath of air. “I want my son.” Fingertips make contact with the folded knife, and I drag it against my hip, drawing it up into my palm.

  Licking his lips, the man in front smiles. “I’m afraid I don’t have your son. But I’ll sure enough help you make a new one. How’s that sound?”

  “Man, that’s fucked up.” The amusement in the voice of the man behind me grates on my spine, and without warning, I snap my head back, drawing my knife out of my pocket.

  “Awww, fuck! My nose!”

  His grip only loosens slightly, and I bring my hands together to flip the blade out. Striking out, I get one smooth cut across the bicep of the one in front of me, but not before he slams his palm into my throat.

  The knife falls from my grasp, clapping against the floor.

  “That wasn’t very nice, mouse,” he grits out, twisting his arm to show me the blood oozing through a tear in his shirt, and the other male digs his nails into my side. “You tried to cut me?” Eyes on me, he lowers himself just enough to pick up my knife and twists the blade in mocking. Propping it beneath my chin, he smiles.

  The one behind me slams his knuckles into me in a painful blow that knocks the breath out of me.

  “Fuck!” I coil into my side to loosen his grip and tears form in my eyes.

  “You got a dirty mouth. How ‘bout I cut out that tongue?” His palm moves to my jaw, and he holds me steady as he leans in, dragging his wet, sticky tongue over my sealed lips. “I like the way you taste.”

  “Leave her alone.” The familiar voice hits me from the right, and the stranger in front of me snaps his attention that way.

  With the loosening of his grip, I turn to see Simon standing in the doorway, the barrel of a gun pointed toward the man.

  It doesn’t make sense why he’s here, but I don’t care, given the circumstances. Maybe the bastard followed me. The point is, someone stopped this shitshow from happening.