Echoes of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

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  To my family, friends, and fans. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been writing for almost forty years. If there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.

  1

  Now I lay me down to sleep.…

  * * *

  Dreams are like runaway trains, and we, their passengers. It’s a simple truth of dreams that we may ride the train and see the worlds and visions it opens to us, but we are helpless to change its speed or divert it from its course. Dreams go where they will.

  Sadly, or perhaps blessedly, most of the adventures presented to us on these nightly forays are lost upon waking, wiped clean by the churnings of the conscious mind, which demands control and has no patience for the train. Yet some small fragments may linger: a feeling of joy or terror, an image, a sound.

  Lucid dreams are different.

  Unlike their relentless yet forgettable cousins, lucid dreams are remarkably memorable.

  Within the realm of lucid dreams, the normal rules do not apply, allowing some to take control. Like a Hollywood director, they can script their actions on the fly, reveling in the godlike freedom to create, enjoy, or destroy at will. The greater the capacity to imagine and create, the more powerful they become, like mages and demigods from some video game, spinning the world to their liking.

  The laws of nature are no obstacle within a lucid dream. In such a state, one might soar over snowcapped mountains, scuba dive in blue Caribbean water, or walk in space. Magic abounds. In a lucid dream, the dreamer is in control.

  * * *

  Jason Norris has never had a lucid dream.

  As cofounder of the prestigious Norris & Lambert, an accounting firm in San Jose with offices in New York and Houston, he’s rarely been accused of showing even the slightest hint of imagination. He reads voraciously, but never fiction. He plays games, but only those that are numbers based. He collects coins and bills, but only because they speak to the history of ledgers and counting.

  His wife, Alice, says he likes his spreadsheets more than the spread of her legs.

  It’s not entirely true—they do have two daughters.

  Despite his machinelike brain, Jason enjoys fly-fishing. He was introduced to it in college, and it’s the only sport-related activity he was ever good at. It’s no surprise then that in this, his first lucid dream, he finds himself at a favorite spot on the Upper Kern River, a fly rod in his hand. He knows every bend, pool, glide, and riffle for miles—yet instead of fishing, he finds himself standing at the edge of the water, perplexed.

  This is not the river he remembers, this place beyond sleep.

  * * *

  I pray the Lord my soul to keep.…

  * * *

  The hills are the same, as are the trees and the collections of riprap gathered here and there, forming pockets of still water. Even the air smells of the wild just before spring, as the Upper Kern so often does. Yet, as comfortable and familiar as these things are, Jason finds himself distracted by something … unfamiliar.

  There’s blood in the water.

  It seems to start at his feet—just the surface spread from a few translucent drops, resembling a thin sheen of oil. But as he watches, the red grows deeper, expanding out. It doesn’t wash away as one would expect, diluted by the river, but instead defies gravity and spreads in all directions. Soon, the stain reaches across the entire breadth of the river. Some of it washes downstream, but more seems to move upstream, like a dark mass of spawning trout.

  No, that’s wrong, Jason thinks. Not spawning salmon—shadows, undefinable darkness upon the river that only he can see.

  Jason doesn’t believe in God.

  The divine isn’t something you can quantify and calculate. God multiplied by creation does not equal life, at least not in his perfectly ordered brain. Still, when he hears the rustle of feet next to him and turns, he half expects to see Moses with his staff extended to the water, turning all the Kern to blood in a lesson to Pharaoh.

  It’s not Moses.

  It’s something else.

  As Jason opens his mouth to scream, the dream ends abruptly. He awakens to darkness, utter and complete. Even the comforting glow of the night-light is gone. The bulb must have burned out, he tells himself; either that or Alice moved it. The air is stifling, the bedroom claustrophobic.

  * * *

  If I die before I wake …

  * * *

  As he starts to jerk upright, his head strikes something and he flops back down. Attempting to lift his hands to feel for the obstruction, he discovers that they too are blocked, as if someone had built a low ceiling over him while he slept.

  It only takes a moment for realization to settle heavily in his chest, a bowling ball resting on his sternum: this is not his bed.

  Fear begins to take over and Jason claws at the obstruction and pushes it with all his might. His breathing grows short and shallow as a sense of claustrophobia rises within. “No, no, no!” he pants, the words giving way to whimpers. He searches his pockets for a match, a lighter—anything that’ll shed light on his situation, but finds them as empty as a promise.

  The truth finds him slowly and then all at once, like a fast-approaching train that leaves him in a Doppler wake. When it has come and gone, he lies trembling for a long moment, utterly quiet and still. Terror simmers within him, growing to a boil. An immaterial creature seeking release.

  Then the screaming begins in earnest as his mind breaks.

  * * *

  I pray the Lord my soul to take.

  2

  Sunday, March 8

  Call me Steps, everyone does.

  As a man-tracker for the FBI’s elite Special Tracking Unit, I spend a good deal of my time traveling the country with my partner, Special Agent Jimmy Donovan. We look for the lost, bring justice to the dead, and hunt some of the sickest minds our society has produced, which is no small task.

  The dental and medical plans are excellent.

  Because of my spur-of-the-moment lifestyle, choosing the date for a wedding is challenging enough. Choosing the date for an outdoor wedding in the Pacific Northwest adds a whole new level of difficulty. It’s a lot like running rapids in a partially deflated raft: you know you’re going to get wet, you just don’t know how bad the soaking is going to be. The odds don’t start to weigh in your favor until about mid-July, and then you have about a month and a half of fairly dependable sun before things get sketchy again.

  “How about August twenty-second?” Heather suggests.

  “Is that a Saturday?”

  “It is.”

  “And that works for you?”

  She smiles. “It does.”

  Her eyes are dancing the way I love, and she immediately notices that I’m noticing. The smile blooms into something grand and beautiful, a
look that could slay a man in his tracks or raise the dead. She’s killed me a thousand times.

  Heather and I are taking high tea in Fairhaven, a historic district within the city limits of Bellingham, Washington, not far from my home on Chuckanut Drive.

  With its Victorian-era architecture, fine restaurants, quaint art shops, and magnificent bookstores, Fairhaven is popular with both locals and tourists. There’s a lot to discover, including the Big Ben Tea Room on Eleventh Street, where you can take high tea in a British-inspired atmosphere.

  It’s one of Heather’s favorite places.

  Diane Parker introduced her to the place. Diane is the third and final member of our exclusive unit and serves as our intelligence analyst. In her mind, that makes her the most important member of the team. Jimmy and I like to remind her that she’s old enough to be our mother.

  It’s raw ageism, I know, but it’s the only thing that shuts her up.

  If we told her the truth, that she’s smarter than the both of us combined, it would be like pouring endless quantities of gasoline on an already-searing fire.

  Diane never goes on the road with us. She rarely leaves her office.

  I’ve never quite figured out what she does or how she goes about doing it, but she somehow conjures up this weird analytical voodoo that helps solve cases in such places as California, Alaska, or on the other side of the Continental Divide, all from the comfort of her office. It’s freaky weird and the closest thing to magic I’ve seen. I’d swear she keeps chicken feet and casting bones somewhere in her desk, probably next to a vial of virgin’s blood.

  Diane sees more of Heather than I do, and the two of them are like sisters born thirty years apart. I once said they were like mother and daughter, but that earned me a voluminous stink eye from Diane, so I never said it again. I learn quickly like that.

  “What happens if you get a call?” Heather asks.

  It’s a fair question. Jimmy and I tend to live out of small luggage and homogenized motel rooms. We spend a lot of time moving from city to city, from case to case—wherever someone might be missing, or a body turns up under unusual circumstances. It’s the kind of job you love and hate and despise all in the same breath.

  “Jimmy won’t let that happen,” I say, pretty sure that it’s true. Lifting my cup and pointing it at her, as if for emphasis, I say, “That falls under the duties of the best man, after all, and you know how seriously he takes his responsibilities. He’ll make sure everything goes off without a hitch, you’ll see.”

  “Yeah, well, most grooms don’t have access to a corporate jet”—she lowers her voice and leans in—“or bodies dropping around them like candy from a fat kid’s pocket.”

  “Technically speaking,” I whisper back, “they’re not dropping around me; they’re already dead when we get the call.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I do, unfortunately. “What about you?”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, do you think you can abstain from any enticing crime stories until after the wedding?” I’m teasing, but only somewhat.

  Heather’s job is as demanding as mine, but without the budget. While still in college, she founded a news blog focused specifically on crime. It quickly became profitable and gained her some small measure of recognition, enough to get her signed by Newsweek after she completed her master’s.

  When her short stint as a bona fide Newsweek reporter came to an abrupt end—on her terms—she returned to the blog full-time and has steadily built it into a going concern. It now employs three people—well, Heather plus two others, and one of them is part-time.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Heather replies. “Charles Manson could rise from the dead and offer an exclusive interview and it wouldn’t lure me away.” She cocks her head to the side and gives me a funny little smirk, eyes twinkling. “I might consider sending him an invitation, though. That way we could chat during the reception.…”

  “As long as he’s available for family photos,” I shoot back.

  She crinkles up her nose. “Creepy.”

  * * *

  I had an ulterior motive when I asked Heather to tea this morning. I have a secret I’ve kept from her for almost a year and a half, and if we’re to be married, it’s not something I can keep hidden. It wouldn’t be right.

  For months I’ve been trying to think of a way to tell her, but I’m so afraid of how she’ll react that every time I gather the courage it drains out the bottom of my shoes. My gut tells me she’ll accept my peculiar condition well enough, but other parts of me think she’ll freak out and view me as either completely mad or, worse, a monster.

  That’s why I can’t tell her in the teahouse.

  If she freaks, I’d rather it be in private.

  As we finish our tea and make our way out onto Eleventh Street, I find the sidewalks busier than anticipated. It’s a nice day for early March, and it seems the sun—which locals jokingly refer to as the strange glowing thing in the sky—has pulled a lot of people from winter hibernation and drawn them to Fairhaven. There won’t be any private conversations on these streets, not today.

  As we pass the British-style double-decker bus that sells fish and chips at the corner of Harris and Eleventh, a thought occurs to me. “Want to take the boardwalk up to Boulevard Park?”

  “Sure. Since I have you all to myself, might as well make the most of it.”

  Kitty-corner from the Village Green, we find the entrance to a short trail and follow it north to the Taylor Avenue Dock, which juts straight out from shore. After walking along the dock for a couple hundred feet, we are connected to the Fairhaven boardwalk, which parallels the shoreline north to Boulevard Park. By this time, we’re a good two hundred feet from shore and perhaps a dozen feet above the water.

  The whole thing is a marvel.

  About every two hundred feet a small platform extends out from the side of the boardwalk with a bench facing the water and the distant islands. Plenty of people are on the boardwalk, but it’s by no means crowded. Most seem too absorbed in their conversations to pay much notice to a couple walking along slowly, hand in hand.

  Halfway across the boardwalk, I decide that this is as good a place as any, and, before I lose my nerve, I pull Heather aside to one of the benches and ask her to have a seat. Feeling much like Dr. Jekyll on the verge of revealing Mr. Hyde, I take a seat next to her but turned sideways on the bench so that I’m facing her.

  “I need to tell you something. Something you need to know before we get married; something I should have told you a long time ago.”

  She says nothing, but watches me, more curious than concerned.

  “Remember when we first met, when you were embedded with the tracking unit for three or four weeks?”

  “Three weeks,” she corrects. “And, yes, I remember.”

  “Do you remember calling me a fraud after one of the cases?”

  She snorts as if it’s an old joke.

  “So, you do remember?”

  She studies me a moment, then puts her hand on my cheek. “It was very sweet. No one ever followed a fake track for me before, but there are better ways of impressing me.”

  “You think it was a fake track?”

  “Of course, it was.” She sees the look on my face and smiles. “What? Do you think I didn’t bone up on man-tracking before I joined a man-tracking team? I did. At least enough to know that with terrain like that, there’s no way anyone could have tracked—” She suddenly covers her mouth. “I forgot his name. It was Jerrod something, wasn’t it?” She snaps her fingers. “Anderson … Jerrod Anderson.”

  “Andreasen,” I correct.

  Her mouth scrunches up in disappointment. “Close.”

  I take a deep breath. “What if I told you it wasn’t a fake track?”

  She starts to shake her head, then sees that I’m perfectly serious.

  “Promise you won’t judge until you’ve heard the whole thing.”

  “I promise,” she says i
n a soft, uncomfortable voice.

  There’s no backing out now, so I plunge ahead. She’d already heard about the time I got lost in the Cascade mountains when I was eight, how I froze to death and was found just in time to be revived. That’s where she thinks the story ends, but it was just the beginning of an entirely new story.

  “When I woke in the hospital, there was a … haze, over my mom’s face. And then I noticed the same thing on other people. It was light at first, almost imperceptible, but in the coming weeks it grew more pronounced, and it wasn’t just on people. It was on anything someone touched: footprints, thumbprints, handprints. If someone brushed up against a wall, it left a mark. The problem was, I was the only one who could see it. At first, I thought the hypothermia had damaged my eyes somehow, but as the haze grew deeper and more colorful, I began to think I was losing my mind. Imagine that, an eight-year-old kid thinking he’s going crazy.”

  As I fall into silence, Heather studies my face. “Go on.”

  “You think—”

  “No—” she cuts me off.

  “I don’t blame you,” I say quickly. “That’s why I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “It’s fine,” she insists. Reaching out, she takes my hand in her own, then looks me in the eye. “Tell me the rest.”

  I do. Over the next few minutes, I tell her everything, the good, the bad, and the unbelievable.

  “So, this aura you see on people—what did you call it?”

  “Shine.”

  “And it’s different for every person?”

  “As far as I know. At least I’ve never seen two that are exactly alike.”

  “It stays on everything someone touches?”

  “Yes … well, kind of. Footprints are a bit weaker when shine has to penetrate through shoes, but it’s still there. It may have something to do with the compression of the foot against the ground.”