by Nell DuVall
Cassie lay on her pillow, but sleep eluded her.
The image of the moon reflected in those staring eyes accused her. She had done nothing to avert the tragedy.
In the morning after Rod left, Cassie called the police from a pay phone. She told them she thought Ellie Latham was dead and that they should look for the body in a cornfield near some sort of communications tower. The police wanted to know her name, where she had gotten the information, and which cornfield. Frustrated, Cassie hung up the phone and went to work.
That evening on the news, the reporter described the police finding the body of Ellie Latham in a cornfield. The police had received an anonymous call from a woman that morning and were looking for the caller.
Rod stared at her. “You called the police, didn’t you?”
Cassie nodded, eyes cast down at her clasped hands. “Yes, the dream felt so real.”
“Does it happen often?”
“Does what?” She gazed up to see his face, hard and unyielding.
“Dreams that come true.”
“Sometimes, not often.”
“Can you read people’s minds?”
“What?” Cassie feared his hard gaze and where his questions might lead. “No, what made you ask that?”
“All those times you seemed to know what I’ve been thinking.”
“I’m a good guesser, that’s all.”
“But you do see things in dreams?” The dead tone of his voice scared her.
“Sometimes. I told you that.”
He stood up and paced. “That’s creepy. I’m not sure I can deal with that.”
Cassie twisted her hands in her lap as his icy words penetrated her heart. “What do you mean, ‘deal with that?’"
“Look,” he stopped and faced her. “I’m a down-to-earth guy, both feet solidly on the ground. I don’t go for all this Shirley MacLaine stuff. I don’t like wackos.”
“You think I’m a wacko?” She held her breath and waited for his reply.
“That’s not,” he breathed out his words slowly, “exactly what I mean, it’s just that it makes me ... it makes me uncomfortable.”
“I make you uncomfortable?” She could only repeat what he said. Her brain didn’t want to function.
“I didn’t say that,” he snapped.
Cassie snorted. “Maybe not, but it’s what you meant.”
“See,”—he ran a hand through his brown hair—"that’s what I mean. Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking.”
“If you’re thinking it, why don’t you just say it? Don’t make me guess.”
“Look, Cassie, we’d better cool things for a while. I’ll call you. Okay?”
“Sure, Rod, you call. I won’t hold my breath.” Cassie stalked from the room.
To hell with Rod. So sometimes dreams came true, so what? It wasn’t as if she practiced witchcraft or fortune telling. She didn’t ask for these dreams. They came whether she wanted to dream them or not. Maybe she did find something in Shirley MacLaine and some of the New Age stuff. That didn’t make her crazy, just sensitive. Why should Rod get all hot about that?
As Cassie cooled down, she began to rationalize the break. Obviously, she and Rod weren’t as well suited as she had thought. He never put her first. It was always a drink with his buddies or the OSU football game. He never phoned to tell her he might be late. He didn’t even like books.
If he couldn’t accept her as she was, then they were better off apart. He never remembered she preferred tea to coffee. Things always had to be done his way. He chose all the movies and TV programs they watched.
The break up still hurt. Rod Malvern was the first man she had shared herself with, and he left her feeling used, used and rejected.
Now a year later, she found herself dreaming of a stranger, a redheaded man.
Maybe she should accept Tula’s invitation. She hadn’t been to a party in long time. New faces would take her mind off Rod, the man in her dream, and this crazy vicious rabbit. She needed distraction and a firm grounding in ordinary things. Mingling with people who lived normal lives and didn’t worry about what dreams meant would put things in perspective.
Chapter Four
Monday afternoon, Cassie sat at the Children’s Desk of the Upper Arlington Public Library, struggling to concentrate on the newspaper in front of her. The page blurred.
Images of the redheaded man and his look of surprise as the black rabbit attacked his leg haunted her. Dreams had no place at work because she had too much to do. She didn’t know him and had no way to warn him. He wouldn’t believe her anyway. Rod hadn’t.
“Hi, Miss Blake, how ya’ doing?”
Cassie blinked, and the images faded. She looked up to see eleven-year-old Jimmy Wilson standing next to her desk, grinning down at her. His brown hair kept falling over his right eye just like the man in her dream. She tried to push all thoughts of the man away and to focus instead on the boy.
She liked Jimmy and enjoyed his teasing. His fondness for puns usually made her groan. She wondered what he would try to stump her with today and smiled in anticipation.
“I’m fine, Jimmy. You?”
“Oh, okay.” He rubbed one foot over the other. “I got this homework assignment to do. I gotta write a dumb report on William ... uh, William Harrison.”
Class assignments repeated the same topics every year. Cassie sighed. “Tippecanoe and Tyler too.”
“Huh?” Jimmy stared at her, his mouth open.
About this time of year, the social studies teachers assigned reports on the U.S. Presidents. Cassie had learned the biography of everyone and especially those associated with Ohio. The library kept lists and files of relevant information at hand, but the goal remained to help the kids learn to find things themselves.
“Harrison defeated the Shawnee Indian chief, Tecumseh, in the Battle of Tippecanoe. Tecumseh sided with the British in the War of 1812.”
“Tecumseh? Oh, yeah that’s that big outdoor play they do with the canons. I remember now. Mom took me to see it last summer.”
Cassie nodded. “It all happened almost two hundred years ago. Anyway, all you have to do is look Harrison up in the catalog. You remember how to do that?”
“Yeah, I guess so. Say Miss Blake, what do you call a blue bag?” Jimmy grinned from ear to ear.
“A blue bag?” Cassie frowned. She didn’t want Jimmy to feel too bad when she guessed his riddle so she made a show of thinking.
“Hmm, I’m not sure. Knowing you, it has to be a pun or some such. Let me see...” Cassie tapped a finger alongside her chin. “A bag is a ... sack.” She suppressed a smile as she saw Jimmy’s grin fade. “And blue is a color.”
Jimmy’s grin came back.
“Blue, hmm. Blue can also be how you feel, sad. I know — how about a sad sack?”
Jimmy scuffed his foot against the brown carpet. “Aw, Miss Blake, I made it too easy.” He grinned up at her, eyes twinkling. “Bet ya, I’ll get you next time.”
“You’re on.” Cassie grinned back at him. “You’d better get going on that assignment, and I need to finish my work.”
She watched as he shuffled over to the computer terminal and began keying in his inquiry. A quick scan of the room revealed a few children at low tables reading books. The plaster statue of Alice from Through the Looking Glass marked the entrance to the picture book area. It made a nice change from the stuffed animals found in other libraries. The children liked it, especially the little girls.
Waist-high bookcases separated the picture book collection from the rest of the reading room. Inside the square, several mothers helped their children select books. Round-faced Tracy Bolin refused the book her mother offered and chose another instead.
Cassie liked Tracy and her pretty mother. They came to the library every week and took home a pile of books and videos. Tracy had a stubborn streak, but today she smiled and waved to Cassie, and she waved back.
Straightening her shoulders, she picked up the newspaper, determined to focus on her work. The library kept a pamphlet file in the Children’s Department and, as part of her duties, she clipped the Columbus Dispatch and the Upper Arlington News for items likely to be of interest. While the newspapers had online databases, some children liked to use the pamphlet file.
The Adult Department had access to an online index for the Dispatch, but this paper file made it easier for the younger children to find material. Soon, with the increased emphasis on computer literacy and the availability of computers, tablets, and smart phones at home and school, the print files would disappear. Even now, fewer children used them.
She finished the Arts section and started with the Business section. She seldom found much in it, but occasionally they wrote up a local company or profiled some new invention or discovery. She skipped over the stock market reports and checked the articles.
As she turned to the front page of the section, a photo in the middle of the page jumped out at her. Gasping, she leaned closer. The man from her dream stared back at her. Only this time he wasn’t smiling and the corner of his mouth wasn’t quirked, but the picture showed the same man. In this picture, instead of a bright shirt, he wore a dark suit, white shirt, and striped tie.
Staring at the picture, Cassie willed it to change into someone else, but nothing happened. The aura of the dream had warned her. Somehow, she had known the dream man had to be a real person somewhere, but to be confronted with him like this scared her. She pushed her chair back and rose. With unsteady feet, she stumbled to the ladies’ room.
Inside, she ran the water until it came out icy cold and then splashed the water on her face. The chill made her blink. She blotted her face dry with several tissues from her pocket and tossed the wet, crumpled mess into the wastebasket. From the large mirror above the basin, two black holes stared back from a dead white face. Cassie shuddered as she punched the electric dryer to warm her hands.
She couldn’t stop the trembling as she held them up to the comfort of the hot air. She drew in a deep breath to calm herself. Ellie Latham had prepared her, but seeing the face of the real man still shocked her. When the dryer stopped, she held her shoulders back, took a deep breath, and opened the restroom door.
“You okay, Miss Blake?” Jimmy Wilson stood at the drinking fountain and stared at her, concerned.
“I’m fine, Jimmy.” Cassie forced a half-smile. “Maybe a touch of the flu.”
“Mom said there’s lots of it around. You sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine.” She sought to distract Jimmy and focus his attention elsewhere. Struggling to remember the subject of his project, she couldn’t quite reach it. “How’s your research coming?”
“Uh, okay. I found a couple of books. We only need two plus an encyclopedia.” He swung his left hand forward and revealed the two slim books he held.
“Good luck then.” She turned and hurried back to her desk.
Her knees still shook as she sank onto the chair. In front of her, the picture of the man from her dream stared back. She scanned the caption beneath the picture. Tuesday, the Upper Arlington Chamber of Commerce awarded Ian McLeod, President of McLeod Enterprises, its Young Businessman of the Year award.
Ian McLeod? Well, the name fit with the red hair. She had no idea where she could have seen his face. So far as memory served, she hadn’t met him. Still, she must have glimpsed his face somewhere, otherwise why would he haunt her dreams?
She read the small article next to the picture. It didn’t add much, except to say McLeod headed an accounting services firm. She pulled out the yellow pages and looked up accounting services. Under the ‘M’s she found McLeod Enterprises and a reference to a box ad. According to the ad, the firm offered a full range of services including tax accounting. At least now, her mysterious dream man had a name, not that it made much difference.
Why had his image invaded her dreams? A rabbit and an accountant? Talk about a weird combination. Why should her mind pick such an odd couple? Why did she believe the rabbit meant evil? The bunnies in the pet stories and in the children’s picture books always looked so soft and cute. Cuddly creatures with pink noses and wide eyes couldn’t be evil. None of the black rabbits she saw on her occasional visits to the pet store had the taint of her dream creature.
After her conversation with Tula, she had looked at the stills from Night of the Lepus in a book on horror films. Despite the movie’s premise of giant carnivorous rabbits, the rabbits in the film had not looked so menacing. They looked ridiculous as predators. Only their size threatened. Cassie shook her head. Why would her subconscious choose a rabbit?
Years ago, she recalled reading a piece on a rabbit attacking the then President, Jimmy Carter. Everyone had scoffed, but someone suggested it might have been rabid and thus acted against its nature. In her dream, a similar thought had struck her. Maybe she had jumped to conclusions about the rabbit. Perhaps the rabbit showed another aspect of McLeod. The images about Ellie Latham had been so clear and straightforward. No confusion there.
Maybe this dream had something to do with insanity. Did it mean Ian McLeod was crazy? Was he going mad and the dream come as warning about that? Yet that couldn’t be right. Ian McLeod wasn’t like that. Her instincts told her the danger came from the rabbit, not McLeod.
These dreams had been as vivid as her dreams of Ellie Latham. The place she had seen Ellie had been a real place, but she had never seen Ellie’s killer, just Ellie and the place. While the latest dream carried the smells of a cornfield, she hadn’t seen a place she could identify. Rather, it had been without any distinct features.
She could dismiss the first part of the dream as coming from an overactive imagination prompted by loneliness. Other women had dream lovers. Why should she be different? She had to have seen McLeod or his picture somewhere.
As for the rabbit... It always came back to the rabbit. Cassie shuddered and picked up the newspaper again. She didn’t want to think about the hideous creature anymore.
* * * *
In a hurry to escape Ian McLeod and his toadies, Brad Harrison had grabbed a burger and fries on his way home. He wolfed down the burger, scrunched the wrapper into a ball, and then tossed it at the metal wastebasket he kept in the corner of his living room. It arced nicely, but bounced off the rim.
Damn. The French fries container did the same.
Disgusted, Brad wiped his fingers on the paper napkin and tossed it after the others. This time he hit the center of the basket, and it dropped in. The first thing that had gone right all day.
All in all, he’d had a rotten day. Everyone talked about McLeod’s award, like he’d won the NBA Championship or a Grammy. God Damn ‘Businessman of the Year,’ so what? Who ever heard of Upper Arlington anyway? Stu-pid.
He had torn the picture of Ian McLeod from the morning paper and shoved it in a crumpled ball into his pocket. Glad now he hadn’t thrown it away, he pulled the hard ball out and peeled it open, spreading it flat with the side of his hand. Lines creased McLeod’s face. Yeah, McLeod’s picture would make the ideal target.
Brad carried the picture across the room to the cork dartboard and pinned McLeod’s face to it, placing the stuck-up nose in the exact center. He stepped back for a better look and admired the precise placement as he pushed his hair off his forehead.
Satisfied, he walked to the far side of his lounge and picked up the case of slender, steel-tipped darts. Taking one out, he rolled it in his palm, savoring the weight and balance of it. The heavy shaft narrowed down to a needle sharp point. Touching it to a fingertip, a bright spot of red blood beaded the point. He carefully wiped the bloo
d from the dart on his T-shirt, put the finger to his mouth, and sucked.
Brad stroked the feathers of the dart to align them properly and then took aim. He drew his arm back and hurled the missile. He watched the spinning shaft speed through the air and strike in the exact middle of McLeod’s left eye. He gave McLeod a crooked smile.
Reaching for another dart, Brad used the same unhurried motions and threw it. This one landed precisely in the middle of the right eye. Next, he skewered McLeod’s nose. He walked to the dartboard, pulled each dart out with care, and took down the mutilated picture.
“Well, Mr. High and Mighty, how do you like that?” He smiled with narrowed eyes as he tossed the ruined picture into the metal wastebasket. “Too bad, it’s not for real. Soon I’ll take care of that. Enjoy yourself, McLeod. Your time is short.”
Brad clenched his fists, curling his fingers into tight white-knuckled balls. It wouldn’t be long now. McLeod would suffer for all the hurt he had caused. Once Brad put his plans into motion, only the obituary page would feature Ian McLeod’s picture..
Taking his mother’s photo from the desk, he stroked the gold frame as he gazed into the familiar brown eyes. She had never hurt anyone, least of all McLeod. McLeod would pay for destroying her life.
“I’m sorry it’s taking so long, Ma, but he’ll pay for what he did to you and Dad, and soon.”
Brad had plenty of opportunity. He just needed a method that couldn’t be traced back to him. He had created a new identity complete with a birth certificate, a valid driver’s license, school records, and even references. Yes, he had hidden his identity so well, no one would ever find Brad Harrison until he wanted to be found. Best of all, no one would connect McLeod’s death with James Harrison’s supposed embezzlement more than two years ago or his son.
So far, so good. He considered various means of executing McLeod. Shooting would be too quick. He could sabotage McLeod’s car, but that would not necessarily guarantee his death. Strangulation appealed to Brad, but he would have to catch McLeod off-guard. Poison might be the simplest, and the police would likely suspect a woman. Women always used poison.