by Max Turner
“Deep breaths,” I whispered. I made certain I was quiet enough that only he could hear me. “You have to fight it.”
He kept his mouth closed. His jaw muscles were tense. His pupils were widening. He was snorting like a bull just before it charges the matador. The officers were watching him. I had to draw their attention.
“Where are we going?” I asked loudly.
No one answered. One of the officers took my elbow instead and lifted me to my feet. They did the same to Charlie. I thought he was going to freak, but he didn’t. Then we got escorted up the stairs. One officer was in front of me and another was behind. Charlie was ahead, sandwiched between the two other officers. When he topped the last step, he dropped his chin and whispered so quietly I almost missed it.
“Let’s ditch these turkeys. Right now. Come on. Follow my lead.”
I heard a snap. It was the sound of Charlie breaking the chain of his handcuffs. He grabbed the officer in front of him, spun, and tossed him back so that he hit the officer behind, who hit the officer in front of me. Charlie was so fast, none of them had time to react. I did. I dropped a step and braced myself so I wouldn’t lose my balance when they slammed into me. It was a mistake. I absorbed their momentum, and so the officer behind me wasn’t affected by the avalanche. He had time to draw his gun. I caught a glimpse of Charlie’s coat. Then the back door was ripped off its hinges. The pistol went off an instant later, right beside my ear. I had no doubt the officer missed Charlie by a mile, but the shock wave from the exploding bullet hit my eardrum like a wrecking ball. Sound disappeared. All I could hear was a shrill ringing. My head began to throb. The officer fired twice more. It made me so dizzy I fell into him. He must have thought I was trying to knock him over—to escape. He started yelling at me. I could see his lips move, but I couldn’t tell what he was saying. Then electricity jolted through me. I was paralyzed. I tumbled down the stairs. Aftershocks followed. And more pain. I felt another powerful jolt. And another. Someone was hitting me with a Taser, or a stun gun. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t move. Then my head said, Enough is enough, and it turned out the lights.
My ears were still ringing when I came to. I was sitting in a chair, my arms behind my back. A table was in front of me. I tried to stand, but I’d been chained in place. I looked over my shoulder. The wall behind me was a mirror. I turned and gazed at my reflection. A young kid with a stunned expression stared back. His face was bruised. His lip was split. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. I took a deep breath, locked it in my chest, tensed my muscles, and tried to break loose. Iron bit into my wrists. Three or four sets of manacles had to be in place. I held my breath and tried again, but nothing happened. I tested the air with my nose. Smelled coffee and gunpowder. The room was small, off-white, square, with plaster walls, cheap ceiling tiles, and a cement floor.
My ears were still ringing from the officer’s gun. It was all I could hear until footfalls approached from the hall. The door opened and a man wearing street clothes and tiny, round-rimmed glasses walked in. He was squat, maybe a foot shorter than me, totally bald, with tree trunks for legs and skin that was well tanned. He might have been a professional wrestler at one time. For just an instant, I was reminded of the Nicholls Ward. I wondered if I’d ever seen him there, then I realized it was his scent. Something on his clothes, like antiseptic or some kind of cleanser, made him smell as if he’d just stepped out of a hospital waiting room. He had a folder in one hand. In the other was a Tim Hortons mug. He raised his index finger, which was easily worth two of mine, pushed the frames of his glasses farther up his nose, and took a cautious sip of coffee. Then he set his drink on the table, pulled out the chair, sat down opposite to me, spread the folder open, looked at it, took a deep breath, and waited. After a cold minute, he looked up at me.
“You’re Daniel Zachariah Thomson?”
I nodded. “I go by Zack.”
“I’ve been told that. I’m Detective Baddon.”
Baddon. I’d heard that name at the zoo. But I’d never seen this man and didn’t know anything about him. He laced his fingers together and set them on the table. A wicked scar was on one of his wrists. I took a closer look at his face. He had to be in his forties. Tired, but alert. His eyes drifted up to the ceiling, then back to me.
“You know you were fingerprinted when you came in?”
I didn’t know, but I said nothing. He took off his glasses and rubbed his temples, then slipped the glasses carefully back on. I noticed his eyes were watering. I couldn’t tell if he was upset, furious, or just plain exhausted. “You’re being charged with murder?”
I nodded. And swallowed.
“The top of Johansson’s car was torn off. Like paper. Only a vampire is that strong, Zachary.”
Vampire! I heard that word and my heart started to throw two-punch combinations against my rib cage. He knew what I was! I could feel his eyes probing. They were intense and focused. Searching for clues. My mouth was open. It had dried up like the Sahara. I had to clear my throat before I could speak.
“I didn’t do it.”
He didn’t look convinced. “This is a complicated situation, Zachary. You’re going to have to give me a little more than that.” He flipped through the folder, then rubbed his hand over his head. “Why should I believe you?”
Why would he think I was guilty? Moisture started beading on my forehead. Isn’t that just like the body? It takes all the water from your mouth and sends it to your sweat glands.
“Inspector Johansson is a friend.”
I paused. He waited. His fingers were tapping on the plastic top of his coffee cup.
“That’s it?” He leaned forward on the table again. “You’ve been accused of murder. You’re not going to get a scolding and a slap on the wrist for this. . . . You have to give me more than that.”
What else could I say? That the inspector was my supplier? Would that make sense?
“He dropped Charlie and me off at the house, then left. He was fine the last time I saw him. Well, tired. But he’s always tired. He was going to look for . . .” I stopped to think. He’d gone to look for Ophelia. I wasn’t sure if I should mention her name.
“For whom?” I waited just long enough that he answered for me. “For Ophelia?”
“Yeah.”
He nodded and stared. His eyes ran over my face. He wanted to know if I was lying. Or if I knew something else. I looked down at the table and the file spread across its surface. A picture of me was paper-clipped to one side. I tried to see what was written there, but the words were upside down in messy writing. Not the best for a speed read.
“Why would your fingerprints be on his gun?” he asked.
My hand and arm twitched when he said this, as though they remembered the terrible discomfort I’d felt when I’d held the inspector’s pistol.
“Did someone shoot him?” I asked.
Detective Baddon shifted in his chair. I’m amazed it didn’t collapse from the weight of him.
“No. He fired several shots before the gun was taken from him. Everett said you were the fastest vampire he’d ever seen. Who else but you could have moved so quickly? My bet is, you snatched it away from him, which is why your prints are on the gun. Unless you have another explanation.”
I did. But after living under Ophelia’s watchful eye, I’d learned the value of keeping my mouth shut. Only a select few were supposed to know about us. I doubted Detective Baddon was one of them. Not if he threw the word vampire around. We weren’t ever supposed to refer to ourselves that way. Ophelia and the inspector insisted upon that. Part of our secret. I wasn’t going to tell him anything.
He waited for me to answer the question. When I didn’t, he asked, “What were you doing at the zoo?”
We stared at one another. I wasn’t sure if I should trust him. If I told him the truth, he might just use it to fabricate a story that would make me look guilty.
He looked down at the file, then up at me. “It says here you tried to run fr
om the house. Is that true?”
There didn’t seem to be any harm in denying this, but I was worried that if I started talking, I might not stop and would say something I wasn’t supposed to.
“And your friend. He assaulted several officers and ran. Why would he do that?”
I’m guessing it was because he didn’t want to wind up chained to a chair at the police station. I should have followed Charlie’s lead. But the mention of his name got me thinking about what he would do in this situation.
“I want to make a phone call,” I said.
The detective shook his head. “I can’t do that. And you know why?”
I didn’t know why, so he explained.
“You aren’t a typical prisoner, Zachary. I’m not taking any chances with you. We’re going to be moving you to a special detainment center until we get to the bottom of this. Given your special condition, you’ve been labeled a terrorist—a threat to national security. You won’t be afforded the same rights as other prisoners.”
A threat to national security. That was nonsense. Chained to this chair, I was about as dangerous as a wet paper towel.
He sat back and looked at me. “Everett trusted you. He was a good friend of mine, and now he’s in pieces. I want to know why. I want to know why your fingerprints were on the gun. I want to know why you were at the zoo, and I want to know why Charlie ran. You answer some questions and I’ll think about letting you make a phone call. In the meantime, you’re going to stay chained up behind bars.” He stood up, closed the folder, tucked it under one arm, then picked up his coffee and walked to the door. “I understand as a child vampire, you’re an endangered species. Don’t make things difficult for us, Zachary, or I’ll do the worst thing imaginable. I’ll let you go. Given what I know of the Coven, you won’t survive a week.”
He turned and left me alone in the room. I looked around. My instincts were telling me to pay attention, that I’d missed something on my way down to rock bottom. But my processor had more to consider than it could handle. Inspector Johansson was dead. For some reason, this hadn’t really registered, maybe because I didn’t see him die, or because I wasn’t the one responsible, and so I’d been thinking of the whole thing as one big mistake. But now I was stuck here. And he was really gone. Poor Ophelia! She’d be sick with grief. And worry. I had to get in touch with her somehow. I pulled the chains so they were tight between my wrists and tested them again. And again. The cuffs bit through my skin. I didn’t care. I had to do something. But it was no use. Without a hacksaw or a magic wand, I wasn’t going anywhere.
About ten minutes later two officers walked in. They were dressed up like grunts from a video game. Body armor, helmets with face shields. One was armed with a long stick—like a light saber. A Taser. The second one had a shotgun out. He did the click-click routine to get my attention. It worked. Then came the superzap. All I could think was Not again. Pain burned through every nerve. The room spun. I gasped and pitched forward. My head hit the table. It made a dull thud. Then my eyes closed and I went under.
— CHAPTER 9
THE DREAM ROAD
The room was too bright. I turned away from the light and fell on the floor. It was either daytime or I’d been relocated to a tanning salon. I squinted and looked around. I was in a jail cell. Light spilled through a window set high in a concrete wall. A rough cut of cardboard had been crammed through the bars, but it stopped the light much like a screen stops air. Another wall behind me was made of cinder blocks. I sat up, still squinting. The light was unbearable. It made the skin on my face and neck itch. I could barely see, not that there was much in the way of scenery. A sink. A toilet. A narrow metal bench set into the wall. I had been lying on it until a second ago, before I rolled off onto the floor. I reached up to rub my eyes, but my hands were still chained together, manacled to my waist. My ankles, too. With three sets of chains. I guess Detective Baddon was being true to his word. He wasn’t taking any chances.
The itch of my skin became a burn. I rolled underneath the bench set in the wall and pressed my back against the cold concrete. It was the only shaded place in the room. As soon as I was out of the light, the stinging began to subside and I was able to look around more comfortably. Outside my cell, at the near end of the hallway, was a desk. An ordinary-looking police officer was sitting there. His dark skin was wrinkled around his eyes, and his tight, curly black hair was receding up his forehead. He was flipping through pages on a clipboard.
I glanced at the window. It could have been noon or anytime after. I wasn’t going to last a day in this place. Then the light faded. I guessed a thick cloud was moving in front of the sun. It gave my eyes a much needed break. I tried to remember what I knew about jail from movies and TV. Then I stood up and walked over to the door of the cell and cleared my throat. I had to take advantage while the sun was hiding.
“I’d like to make a phone call.”
The officer ignored me, so I said it again. And again.
Then he put down his clipboard and pen and stood from his desk to face me. His name tag said OFFICER M. LUMSDEN. “No can do.”
“But I haven’t called anybody, yet.”
He grabbed another chart from his desk and examined it. Then he looked at me as though he’d just exposed a plot to overthrow the government. “Says here it’s not permitted. I can’t help you.”
“Why not?”
He thumbed through his papers and shook his head. “Baddon doesn’t want you calling out, plain and simple.” He turned around and tossed his clipboard down on his desk. It sat near an exit. Like my cell, it had a door of metal bars closing it off from a short stretch of hallway behind. That meant to escape, I’d have to get through at least two sets of bars: the ones of my cell, and the one for the whole jail.
“It’s one phone call. My family needs to know where I am.”
Officer Lumsden picked up the clipboard again, then stopped and read for a few seconds. Whatever was written there made him scowl. “Says here you murdered Everett Johansson. Now why, if you killed a good friend of mine, would I reward you by breaking the rules?”
“You aren’t breaking any rules. I get legal counsel. I get to talk to a lawyer. I get a phone call.”
The officer snorted, then turned back to his desk. “You watch too much television. You got the right to sit on your butt and chill. Says here you’re a terrorist. A threat to national security. That means no guests, no phone calls, no legal counsel, no chocolate pudding, no bedtime stories, and no favors.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“Right. Like I’m going to take your word over Detective Baddon, who feeds my cat when I’m out of town. Whose son used to play minor hockey with my son. Who’s an honest cop. Like Johansson was—before you killed him.” Lumsden scowled at me. “You don’t have a lot of friends in this place. Don’t be bothering me again.”
I wanted to tell him that the inspector was a friend of mine, too, but I sensed I would have had an easier time convincing him I was the king of Spain. “Can I have some water?”
I didn’t get an answer. It didn’t matter. What use was a glass of water? I’d be better off asking for some sunscreen. I went back to the metal bed and lay down on the cold floor underneath. With the manacles around my ankles and no pillow, it was about as comfortable as a bed of sharp stones.
Time passed. I drifted off. I dreamt I was back at our house running on the treadmill. My trial was on television. First I was accused of vandalizing the zoo. Then I was accused of killing Everett Johansson. I was also charged with breaking into his house and wrecking one of his lamps. As if that really mattered. The prosecuting lawyer was Clint Eastwood. He was wearing his cowboy outfit and riding on a mule. Every now and then he’d pull out his gun and shoot someone’s hat off, and the jury would shout things like “What a classic!” and “Go ahead. Make my day.” My lawyer was a Ken doll. The judge was charging him with contempt of court because he wasn’t wearing any pants. Don’t ask me what it all meant. I o
nly mention it because one second I was sitting alone on my couch watching the fiasco unfold, and the next minute Ophelia was sitting beside me.
“Interesting program.” She was dressed in her old nurse’s uniform.
“They’re about to announce the verdict.” I turned back to the television. My stomach was trying to tear itself loose. I knew I was going to get put away for life if they found me guilty.
Ophelia stood up and turned the TV off. “Asleep or awake, television is generally a waste of time.”
I sensed I wasn’t dreaming anymore. I wasn’t exactly awake, but dreams have a certain quality, and so does real life. I would have put this somewhere in the middle. Then the scenery changed. The walls of the room faded to black and the comfortable bedroom around me transformed itself to the outdoor play area of the zoo.
“What just happened?” I asked.
“I just turned off the television,” Ophelia said. “And you changed the scenery.”
I looked around. The two dead wolves were lying on the ground, their blood oozing into the sand. I could hear a rusty set of swings creaking in the wind.
“We’re examining the crime scene.” Ophelia kneeled on the ground and began inspecting the bootprints that led to the water where Charlie and I had seen the fight.
“That’s not what I mean. I know where this is. But it’s not right.” I waved at the play structures and the teeter-totters.
“We are walking the Dream Road together.”
“What’s that?”
Ophelia smoothed out the folds of her skirt, then looked at me flatly, as though we were talking about the weather. “The Dream Road is one of our best-kept secrets.”
That didn’t tell me much. She kept everything a secret. My curiosity must have been obvious because she followed this with an unusual amount of detail.
“When you dream, your mind enters a different state of consciousness. One that allows me to enter your thoughts and direct them somewhat. It’s my talent.”