Once Upon a Grind

by Cleo Coyle

  “Petrov was shot through the head inside his apartment. On his corpse they found a vial of the drug used to kill my agent—and my love—Faith. The murder weapon was traced back to Cuba, so the CIA concluded Vasily Petrovus was murdered by the KGB to prevent him from defecting, or as punishment for his part in the August Coup.”

  Franco’s eyes widened. “But you don’t buy that?”

  “Clare knows my theory, Sergeant. I believe one of Petrov’s agents killed him and framed him for Faith’s murder. If I had to guess, I would say this agent felt betrayed by Petrov, and was exacting revenge on him for being abandoned.”

  Wilson leaned across the table.

  “I also believe the pattern is about to be repeated. Once again, this clever killer will set up someone to take the fall. That someone is Matteo Allegro. Whether Allegro is released for lack of evidence or makes bail before a trial, he’ll be murdered and the drug will be discovered in his possession. And just like Petrov, it will be case closed.”

  I felt weak. “We have to do something.”

  Wilson smiled. “Good to hear you say that because I have an idea. Why not use Matt as bait?”

  “What!” I cried, horrified. “No! Absolutely not. Better he gets out of town.”

  “I doubt the police will allow him to leave town. They’re probably going to seize his passport. And this killer can wait weeks. Months. They’ve already waited decades.”

  Franco nodded. “He’s right. Matt will never be safe.”

  “What if he stays in jail?” I said.

  “What?” Franco and Wilson both replied.

  I turned to Franco. “You have to press charges. Matt hit you when you were cuffing him, right? That’s assaulting an officer. Charge him.”

  Franco stared at me in horror. “He’ll hate me forever. Joy will be crushed!”

  “But you’ll save his life.”

  “There’s no guarantee of that.”

  “If your charge keeps Matt in jail another day, maybe two, we can track down the real killer and keep Matt from being set up and murdered.”

  Franco covered his eyes. “Oh, man. I’m sick about this.”

  Now Wilson spoke up. “Clare, listen to me. This won’t stop the clock.”

  “No,” I said, “but it will slow it down, give us a little more time to find the killer. We need it.”

  “I’m going.” Franco rose. “Sleep on this, okay? If you feel the same way in the morning, call me. I’ll press charges.”

  When Franco was gone, Wilson regarded me.

  “What is it?”

  “Something that I think I should tell you. It’s not about the case, and you may not want to hear it.”

  “Of course I want to hear it. What do you know?”

  “Have you spoken with that man of yours?”

  “Mike? No, he’s flying to LA tonight for a meeting tomorrow.”

  Wilson rose and touched my shoulder. “I have a little free advice. The next time he speaks with you about moving down to Washington, listen a little harder, okay? Listen to what he’s saying, between the lines.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Men like Mike Quinn don’t often admit to needing personal backup. But from what I’ve seen, you can handle it.”

  “Handle what?”

  Wilson didn’t tell me. “I’m sure we’ll talk again, Clare. Good night.”

  And just like that, he was gone.

  NINETY-ONE

  AN hour later, I was upstairs, sitting at my kitchen table, Frothy and Java circling my legs. While I absently stroked their fur, I stared at the shiny green bag containing Matt’s magic beans.

  If I drink the coffee again, will there be answers in my visions? Could I finally solve the case?

  Wilson’s cryptic words about Quinn were disturbing, to say the least, and I was desperate to know more. But tonight, the clock was ticking down for Matt, and none of us could be certain about who the real killer was.

  Matt’s Lake Tana coffee beans might give me a clue, but I absolutely loathed the idea of drinking them again. I had no control over the mind trips it gave me. And the last time I chugged it, I’d blacked out. Matt even warned me not to take it again—not on my own.

  But I was alone now. And he was in some awful interrogation room with his life in danger. The least I could do was have a bad dream.

  After mulling over my options, I rose and headed for the bedroom. I’d left a business card on my dresser, something Matt had given me.

  Though it was close to two in the morning, I gave the man a call. Miraculously, he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Good evening, Dr. Pepper, this is Clare Cosi. I’m in the coffee business with Matteo Allegro—”

  “You are the Coffee Lady!” He sounded ecstatic. “You are the one with the visions from the Lake Tana beans?”

  “Yes. I guess Matt told you about me?”

  “Of course! And I am very pleased you called. Very pleased.”

  “Dr. Pepper, I would like to drink the coffee again, but not without supervision.”

  “Oh, my goodness! How exciting! This is perfect timing, Ms. Cosi. Perfect! I’m in my lab now. Columbia University. Come right up, and we’ll get started.”

  NINETY-TWO

  “ARE you comfortable?” Dr. Pepper asked.

  “The bed’s nice. I can’t say the same for the sensors glued to my head.”

  “I am sorry, but we must monitor your brain functions . . .”

  When I arrived at Columbia University’s Sleep Studies Lab, I found an energetic, mocha-skinned man in a white lab coat, presiding over a dimly lit ward where undergrads were earning credits for continuous sleeping (something I recalled plenty of my college classmates doing without the benefit of extra credit).

  After interviewing me, Dr. Pepper had two grad-level students take my vital signs, swab my mouth, and draw blood. Then I drank three cups of Matt’s Lake Tana coffee, and the doctor wired me in.

  “A contrast MRI would be more effective,” Dr. Pepper explained, “but that is a more complex procedure that we do not have time for this evening. Please bear with me, Ms. Cosi . . .”

  “If you’re going to track every neuron in my head, you should call me Clare.”

  “And my real name is Swapnil Padmanabhan.”

  “Since I’m already feeling a little loopy, Doc, I hope you don’t mind if I stick with the soft drink mnemonic.”

  Dr. Pepper smiled. “Are you having trouble relaxing?” He glanced at the polysomnography monitors. “Your heart and respiration rate indicate that you are nervous.”

  There’s an understatement. “The last thing I wanted to do was drink Matt’s crazy coffee again.”

  “Trust me,” the doc insisted. “I will not let any harm come to you.”

  “Maybe if you tell me a story, I’ll be able relax.”

  “Shall I begin with ‘Once upon a time’?”

  “Just tell me what you’ve learned about the coffee. Can you explain why it has such a strange effect on me?”

  “Easily! You know coffee beans contain hundreds of chemicals?”

  “I’m a master roaster, so I’d better know that. I also know the composition depends on the type of bean and how it’s roasted.”

  “The Lake Tana cherries possess chemical substances that are similar to caffeine but much more potent, and these substances act as a powerful, natural nootropic.”

  “Nootropic?”

  “A broad term for a substance that improves brain function. You may have heard of ‘smart drugs’ like memory and intelligence enhancers?”

  “But this is coffee, not a drug.”

  “Nootropic substances can also be found in plants and foods.”

  “So what does this coffee do? Enhance memory or intelligence?”

&nb
sp; “Both and more. Interestingly, your own genetics and biochemistry are as important as the nootropic substance in creating the reaction you are experiencing. For one thing, Clare, you have built up a very high tolerance for caffeine—”

  “It goes with my job.”

  “This resistance to the stimulant in the beverage allows your unconscious mind to function even while the conscious mind sleeps. Consequently, you reach a state of lucid dreaming.”

  “Doc, lucid means awake. You’re saying I’m not sleeping when I have these visions?”

  “Technically, no. You said you were conscious when you saw the vision of the woman on the sidewalk—and again in your bedroom when you saw yourself in the painting, correct?”

  “Yes, both times.” I studied the doctor’s kind face. “Have you known others like me? People who’ve experienced visions?”

  “Oh, yes.” He nodded emphatically. “My grandmother. She drank a special tea from Ceylon, and her visions made her a guru of sorts, as people from the village and the towns around our home sought her wisdom. She did much good, though the karabasan proved trying for her.”

  “Karabasan?”

  “A Turkish word to describe a common phenomenon of lucid dreams. In your visions, Clare, have you seen a dark, frightening figure, the face invisible or obscured in some manner?”

  I tensed, thinking of that dark, hooded figure I continually saw. “You’re not saying everyone who has lucid dreams sees something like that?”

  “The dark figure is universal. It can be male or female. In American folklore, it is called the Boogeyman. The Japanese refer to it as the Kanashibari demon. In Newfoundland, she is the Old Hag. In the West Indies, it is Kokma, a baby ghost who jumps on sleepers’ chests to strangle them; and in ancient England, they called the phenomenon witch riding because they believed witches descended upon the helpless sleepers—oh, my, Clare, your heart rate is increasing again. Do calm yourself.”

  “I will if you explain what this dark figure is.”

  “Darkness is a part of nature, and our human nature. Darkness transcends nations and races, even time. Though the particulars of the dark one may change, the archetype is universal; consequently, so is its projection by the subconscious mind. Of course, the superstitious believe it is . . . something else.”

  “The ‘something else’ part is what worries me.”

  “Do not worry. Trust your mind,” the doctor counseled. “When there is no clutter of consciousness, no ego to get in the way, your subconscious is liberated to make intuitive leaps and associations that your conscious mind would be unlikely or slow to make.”

  “Now you sound like one of my baristas talking about artistic inspiration.”

  “A sound comparison—for in a lucid dream, you lose your sense of time, as artists do in their creative states. And your brain is performing faster than normal, resulting in total recall of stored memories, bits and pieces that might otherwise be filed as ‘unimportant’ by your conscious mind . . .”

  As Dr. Pepper continued to speak, I closed my eyes, trying to will myself to sleep. Time passed, but Morpheus was a no-show.

  “It’s not working, Doc. I’m sorry. Maybe I need more coffee . . .”

  I opened my eyes.

  I was still in bed, but the lab was gone, along with its walls. Twisted trees rose up around me. Above me, a canopy of dark leaves swayed on restless gusts of wind.

  I pulled off the sensors and threw back my covers. As I climbed out of bed, I saw something glowing in the brush—a pair of predatory eyes, red as blood.

  Then a wolf’s slathering jaws burst through the bushes, and I took off!

  NINETY-THREE

  I raced through the forest. Sharp stones cut my bare feet. Clawing branches tore my thin nightgown. With the predator behind me, I didn’t dare slow my pace—until I saw a distant light.

  “This way, Clare!”

  Dr. Pepper?

  I jogged into a small clearing. In the center of the manicured grass sat James Elliot’s orange sandwich wagon with an inflatable Cheshire Cat grinning on the roof. Inside, Dr. Pepper in an English bowler was flipping portobello mushroom burgers.

  But it was Rozalina Krasny who appeared in the wagon window, dressed in a white lab coat.

  “Where is prescription?” Red demanded.

  “I don’t have one,” I replied.

  She frowned. “What drugs do you need?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Give her this.” Dr. Pepper handed over a mushroom burger.

  “Eat it!” Red demanded. “Hurry!”

  After a few bites, I felt a tingling. “What’s happening to me?”

  The sandwich wagon seemed to be growing bigger and bigger. So was the burger. It was bigger than Eldar’s Bosnian Frisbee! Then I realized these things weren’t growing bigger. I was shrinking!

  Dropping the evil mushroom Frisbee, I took off again. But the blades of grass were up to my waist. Dodging a soda can the size of a refrigerator, I tripped and fell down a rodent’s hole.

  Down, down, I slid, far underground until the tunnel of dirt spat me into an immense cave filled with music. The cave glowed with a beautiful pinkish light, and all around me couples danced under trees of gold, silver, and diamond.

  “Where is Annie?” asked Molly Quinn, skipping up to me.

  “I’m sorry, Molly, I don’t know . . .”

  “Annie wants to be a teacher, Aunt Clare. But first she needs money, lots and lots of money. Let’s go find some for her!”

  “Molly, no! Wait! You’ll get lost!”

  I ran after her, pushing through the dancing bodies, but I couldn’t find Mike’s daughter!

  “Clare, dear, over here!”

  Madame? I followed her voice through a key-shaped archway to a room with many tables. It looked like Babka’s restaurant, except the tables were filled with storybook characters: The Three Little Pigs were stuffing their faces; Jack and Jill sipped sparkling water; Beauty flirted with a Beast in a suit; and Papa and Mama Bear complained to the waiter about their food being (respectively) too hot and too cold.

  “Sit down and have tea with us,” Madame directed from a corner table somewhere behind me.

  “Yes!” cried Babka Baum. “We were just wagging our chins about you and Matt—and all of his past problems!”

  I turned to face them and gasped. Madame and Barbara looked like two giant hens! Clothed in finery with scarves flung around their feathered necks, they continue to buck-buck-buck at each other and the other hens at the large round table. I moved toward the vacant chair.

  “No, not that seat!” clucked the Babka hen. “That’s Samantha’s!”

  “She can have it,” a voice quickly replied. “I’m busy!”

  I wheeled to find a harried (human, thank goodness!) Samantha Peel in safari jacket and knee-high boots, clipboard in hand, taking down Goldilocks’s measurements.

  “If you want to fit into the new costume, you better drop a few pounds,” she warned the character.

  Leila Quinn Reynolds suddenly appeared, looking over Sam’s shoulder. “Oh, yes, I agree!”

  Then both women turned to me. “We still need our Prince Charmings! Do you know where they are, Clare?”

  I shook my head and they began to bicker.

  “Ladies, please!” Harrison Van Loon rushed up to them, evening clothes elegant, beard neatly trimmed. “Quiet down. We don’t like that sort of thing in this club.”

  I tapped his shoulder. “You’re Anya’s lawyer, aren’t you?”

  “I’m primarily a divorce lawyer. But I also draw up prenuptial agreements.”

  Leila flipped her scarlet hair and pouted. “My husband made me sign a prenup. It’s a joke!”

  I confronted Mike’s ex-wife and gripped her bony shoulders. “Answer me: How do you know Anya? Did you meet her throu
gh this club?”

  “Oh, please.” She waved her hand. “I only recently rejoined. And Anya was too naïve for this place. She wanted out.”

  “That’s not an answer! You never answered my question! How do you know Anya?!”

  Leila rolled her eyes. “She thought she’d find her Prince Charming here, but girls from her background don’t get princes—”

  “FI-FIE-FO-FUM!”

  The booming voice echoed from above, shaking the cave. Then a huge arm reached down the rodent hole. Giant fingers closed around my waist. “No! Let me go!”

  I felt myself lifted up, up, all the way up to the clouds.

  Dressed in his King’s robes, Dwayne Galloway laughed, his voice splitting the air like thunder as he dropped me in a golden birdcage hanging in his castle bedroom.

  “See you soon,” he sang as his steps shook the floor.

  When the bedroom fell quiet, I heard a tiny voice.

  “Help me!” The beautiful, young Anya, was inside the cage with me, caught in a spider’s web. “Free me! Please!”

  I spied a letter opener on the desk below, dragged it into the cage, and cut her loose. She fell to the cage floor.

  “Thank you!” She hugged me tight. “Thank you so much!”

  Using the letter opener like a crowbar, we threw our weight against it and popped open the little locked door. Then we dropped to the desk, raced to the window, and climbed a vine down the castle wall.

  “Look!” I pointed. “We can use that beanstalk to get back down to earth.”

  As fast as we could, we began to climb down.

  “FI-FIE-FOE-FUM!”

  Above me, the Giant leaped onto the beanstalk. But this time he wore full armor. He was too heavy! The beanstalk swayed and began to fall. I went with it, down, down, and then—

  SPLASH!

  I landed in a black cauldron. My clothes were gone, and the water was starting to boil! I scrambled naked over the side, horrified to find a blond male wolf standing upright in a tailored business suit, watching me.

  The wolf held up a Standard and Poor’s newsletter and it instantly changed into a plush bath sheet. The towel displayed the embroidered letters S&P.