The Nightmare Maker

by Gregory Pettit

  “I know that your precious Senior Auditor was behind Dana’s disappearance, and I bet he thought it would be a good idea to take Olivia. When I’ve stopped the Anarchist, I’m going to discover what’s most important to him, and then I’ll take it away.” I was shaking with fear and rage, but in all honesty I had no way to back up my bravado. I hoped she didn’t know that, but a smile that I could just barely make out told a different story.

  “The briefing you’ve requested will be posted through your letterbox by noon. I’ll drop by for an update…on Tuesday. That should give you four nights to look into our mutual problem. I’ll arrange for our best people to look into your dilemma and have them put together a plan to get your wife back. If you’ve made substantial progress by Tuesday, then it’s yours.” She didn’t bother to finish the threat by telling me what would happen if I hadn’t made progress. I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be pleasant.

  “I’ll see you on Tuesday. Now get the hell out of my house,” I rumbled at her. She wordlessly rolled backward and out the window. I caught the slightest crunching of gravel underfoot but, by the time I tottered over to check on her, she had disappeared into the rain-soaked night. I spotted my phone on the floor, scooped it up, and turned on the flashlight.

  When I turned around, Becky was saying something, and I could see the tears rolling down her cheeks. I ignored her tears and stumbled past, too battered emotionally and physically to care. I pried Ollie off of my leg, grabbed the hammer off of the floor, and wandered toward the front door. I thought for a moment about calling the police or the electricity company, but given the sirens still howling in the distance, I decided to check out the power cut myself. I didn’t like the idea of wandering outside in the dark with my little girl, but in the end I didn’t need to. As I stepped into the hallway, it was obvious why we hadn’t had any power—the fuse box door hung open, and all of the breakers had been tripped.

  Chapter 15 0900–1400, Thursday, October 1, 2015

  The car pulled up at nine sharp, and I spent the trip going over the last few hours in my mind. I hadn’t managed to get back to sleep after Mia’s little visit; instead, I’d tried again to explain to Becky what had gone on. In the end, I was happy that she didn’t just walk out the door. I needed her help because she was the only one I trusted to look after Ollie, but I wouldn’t have blamed her if she had just departed. I’d left a credit card with her to arrange for the broken window to be fixed and had spent a bit of time sweeping up breakfast and eating glass from the floor. Or maybe it was the other way around—I was so tired I honestly wasn’t sure. At least my throat felt like it was full of glass. I might have been coming down with a cold; Ollie had certainly been sniffling around in the morning, but she’d been all dimples and smiles when she ate the French toast that I’d prepared for her.

  Those eminently manageable chores had helped to settle my mind, and in the car I was able to focus on figuring out what I was going to do with the opportunity that Jack Redderton was providing me to get close to one of the bankers. Apparently, it was only going to be for a few minutes, and my still-throbbing nose made me want to avoid annoying Jack by doing anything to harass his client. The best my weary mind could conjure up was to try to get some hair off of the guy.

  The car pulled up at an address a few blocks south of the Royal Albert Hall, where the monthly rent on one of the flats was equivalent to a down payment back in Wisconsin, and I hurried over to stand next to Jack Redderton, who was dressed in a well-tailored black suit, with a pink shirt and a yellow rose in his lapel. His bulldog glower was on full force as he turned to me. “Jules, our security charge is Alfred Hightower. Executive at Lloyd’s. You ride next to him between here and his office, you get out, you open the door, you shut the door. That’s your opportunity,” Jack said. I was just about to tell Jack that there should be plenty of time to collect a hair sample when Hightower came out of the apartment: He was as bald as a cue ball. Shit.

  I climbed into a massive black Bentley and slid across leather seats into the far side of the vehicle. Hightower followed next, and then the rest of the security detail piled in with room to spare. I had no clue how I was going to get some material that would allow me to create a connection into the man’s dreams, and I only had about ten minutes to figure one out.

  We cruised through Kensington and Chelsea and into Westminster with nobody uttering a word. My mind was racing as fast as an eighty-year-old man on crutches, but as we went over Westminster Bridge, I got a break from that tourist trap of tourist traps, Big Ben. A gormless pedestrian had decided to do some early sightseeing and, trying to get the perfect picture, stepped out in front of the speeding luxury sedan. The driver put on a display of skill that fully justified whatever salary he received, and he avoided creating a road pancake by about six inches. The result of this was that the banker’s solid bulk pressed near me, and even through my swollen nose (thanks again, Jack) I caught a whiff of the overpoweringly musky cologne that the man apparently had swum in this morning. The scent crawled into my nose and, before I could stop myself, a sneeze erupted.

  I managed to get my hands up, but this left me in the uncomfortable and slightly disgusting position of holding on to a handful of snot. Don’t judge me—you’ve been there before. Hightower glanced in my direction, cleared his throat, and looked around at the rest of the passengers. The professional bodyguards didn’t even consider letting their vigilance down long enough to dig out a handkerchief. After an uncomfortable pause, the banker dug into his pocket and handed me a wadded-up tissue. I took it and muttered my thanks. I brought the tissue up to my nose and then froze. I’d hit the jackpot. The disgusting, green jackpot. I froze and then faked another, even bigger sneeze which I used to cover the act of palming the tissue, sliding it into my suit cuff, and wiping my dirty hands on the back of my knees.

  The rest of the trip only lasted another couple of minutes before we pulled up to a high-rise office a block from Liverpool Street station. When we stopped, the curb was on my side, so I slid out, opened the door, and first one security guard and then Hightower followed me out. I got back into the car as the executive was led to his office. Jack Redderton turned around and slid in next to me after exchanging a couple of words with the banker.

  “Jules, Mr. Hightower doesn’t want you on his security detail again,” Jack said, his eyes perfectly flat and expression neutral. He gave the slightest shake of his head that I interpreted as “dumb ass” and then handed me a bottle of hand sanitizer. “Keep it,” he said, and then took out another bottle and washed his own hands.

  “That’s just fine, Jack. I got what I wanted,” I said, holding up the used tissue and grinning. I had decided to pretend that that had been my plan all along.

  “Nicely done,” he deadpanned.

  I decided to see if I could fish out some information; I knew that there hadn’t been any deaths last night, but Redderton wasn’t aware of my knowledge.

  “You’ve introduced me to Mr. Hightower, but he’s just one banker. The Anarchist has left a trail of dead financiers. What makes you think that he is even going after this guy? I can only be in one place at a time, and if I’m lurking around while this guy dreams of banging his secretary—of no particular gender,” I hurried to add at Jack’s raised eyebrow, “then anyone else you’re supposed to be looking out for will be vulnerable,” I said.

  “Get this right, and maybe I’ll tell you. Where can I drop you off?” he replied calmly. I considered for a moment and decided that as long as I was already downtown, I could take the opportunity to look into a few threads that I hadn’t been able to investigate previously.

  “Can you take me to Camden Market?” I asked.

  The big man grunted, made a waggling motion with his fingers, and then flicked the flower out of his lapel at me. “You gonna go buy something for your magic spell?” he said sarcastically.

  “Yeah,” I quipped, and spread myself out on the leather seat, enjoying the luxury while it lasted. I tried to en
gage Jack in small talk, but he ignored me and spent the trip fiddling with his phone. I wondered briefly why he’d bothered to ride with me if he hadn’t intended to use the time to discuss the situation. A few more silent minutes of twists and turns along narrow London streets brought us to my destination. I thanked Jack for the ride and hopped out. He gave me a tiny wave with his huge mitts, and I shuffled off.

  I’d done a fair amount of research about magic, mysticism, and the supernatural in the time since I’d woken up, but I’d done most of that in various libraries and online. I’d been meaning to do some searching in person for a few days, so since it was only pushing ten in the morning, I converted intent into action. Nevertheless, I was a bit embarrassed to be heading into the tourist trap that is Camden Market to start my search, but I recalled trips there with Dana where I’d seen Wiccan shops, crystal sellers, and other assorted beardy-weirdies, and I didn’t know where else to start. It wasn’t like there was a place that just had “Magic Shop” written across the front of it.

  Except that there was. My heart skipped a few beats as I walked up to the shop front. It surely couldn’t be that easy, I thought to myself as I crossed the cobbled street leading up to it. And it wasn’t. Even though the sign on the front informed me that it should be open, the door stubbornly refused to budge when I jiggled the handle. I peered in, seeing various items displayed in cases throughout the store. Some of them were everyday boxed magic tricks that you could pick up in any toy store, but there were other, stranger items sitting farther back. My eye was drawn to a particular orb that swirled with oily roiling fog like nothing I’d ever seen before. I felt a pressure behind my eyes as I stared at it. I don’t know how long I was standing there, but eventually I heard a gruff voice.

  “Goddamnit. Looks like he isn’t open today either. You’d think he’d know when customers were coming.” I snapped out of my reverie and turned toward the man. He had dark black skin and a shaved head.

  “You know the owner?” I asked pensively.

  “Yeah—and if the shop isn’t open by now, then he isn’t going to open it today.” The man turned to walk away disgustedly, but at the last second he glanced over his shoulder and threw out some advice: “If you are looking for this kind of stuff, then you might find something at Carrie’s over in The Locks.” I thanked the man and headed toward the bridge to Camden Lock Market. I bought some fresh-squeezed orange juice and asked the vendor for directions to Carrie’s stall. He pointed toward a booth being run by an olive-skinned man with a long black beard and a receding hairline.

  “Carrie?” I said tentatively as I walked up to him. He nodded and beamed a huge smile at me, displaying phosphorescently white teeth.

  “Yes, it is I, Karim the Greek, Kari to my friends. I think that you will be one of my new friends, yes? How may I help you, my friend?” He grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down enthusiastically as he introduced himself. I found myself liking the little man immediately.

  “I was going to visit the magic shop down by the river, but it was closed. I was pointed in your direction by a big guy. Think he was West Indian?” I replied, leaning on the table between a pile of quartz crystals and a stack of incense.

  “Ahh…then you are deeefinitely my friend,” he said, stretching the first syllable of definitely to the breaking point, his Greek accent so thick that I had to cover my mouth to turn my snort of laughter into a cough. He reached under the table and hauled out a large wooden chest, heaving it up with a grunt. He was small, but when the ancient-looking trunk thudded down on the table the whole stall shuddered, and I guessed that it had to weigh the best part of a hundred pounds. He reached into his pocket and fished out a keyring. Somehow, I had expected the key to be some kind of old skeleton key half the size of my hand, but instead he rifled through the dozen on the chain and selected one for a standard Master Lock. When the trunk was open, I could see a half dozen items sitting lonely at the bottom: a couple of small green marbles, an old pair of heavy-rimmed fifties-era NHS prescription glasses, a crystal that looked identical to the others on his table, a gaudy-looking silver pentagram on a leather thong, and a small blue book without a title.

  As a memory cropped up of Father O’Hanrahan and the Senior Auditor starting this entire chain of events by dropping off another tome in an anonymous dorm room, my attention was drawn instantly to the book. I reached out to examine the item.

  “My friend!” The Greek put a finger lightly on my forearm, and I checked my motion. “You may look, but please, no touching until you have paid. You know how it is with items of this…quality.” He put a strong emphasis on the final word, and it was clear that I didn’t want to try handling any other items until invited.

  “Sorry,” I said, my cheeks flushing at the implied insult. I’d never stolen anything in my life. “I’m looking for someone. Someone that you can’t look up in the phone book. I have…an article belonging to that person, though.” The Greek nodded thoughtfully, and I was pleased with myself for managing to be vague enough to bluff my way through the encounter. Then he slammed the trunk shut.

  “My friend, I am so veeery sorry. I have nothing that can help you with that problem. But…if you leave me a way of contacting you, I can speak to some of my other friends?”

  I hesitated. If I gave this man my real number, then he could let anyone know what I’d asked for, and they’d be able to trace it back to me. On the other hand, the Sons of Perseus, the Reddertons, and a murderous Dreamwatcher already had me on their radar. How many more people could be interested in finding me? I decided that the gods love fools and gave him my number. He pumped my hands again and called me friend a few more times, and I took off for home.

  I thought about taking a cab, but even though I’d pulled up in a Bentley, my funds were pathetically low, so I ended up on public transport. It was nearly half past noon when I got back to Ealing Broadway, the train pulling up after a long wait just outside the station. I’d been so busy getting to the meeting with Jack and so sleep deprived that I hadn’t had any opportunity to look into the sirens the night before, but as I walked outside of the station to grab a bus, the reason for the sirens was immediately evident, and the contentment that I’d felt at my progress this morning evaporated.

  The entirety of Haven Green was cordoned off, and the burnt-out hulk of a bus was wrapped around the smoldering remains of what had been a two-hundred-year-old horse chestnut. I ended up taking shanks’ mare down to the Uxbridge Road and catching the 207 back to West Ealing. I passed broken shop windows and boarded-up doors, but it wasn’t until I grabbed a stray Metro newspaper that I understood what had caused the all-night emergency service parade. The headline read, “Rioters Go Mad in Asylum—Ealing Hospital Chaos Returns.” Apparently, a few dozen seemingly normal people had burst into the waiting room and proceeded to smash the place up. They had also started a fire that had done moderate damage to a few rooms, and the rioting had spread back toward the station from there.

  The Anarchist hadn’t exactly been subtle in advertising his modus operandi, but the headlines were further confirmation, if any was needed, that he was behind the riots. The location of the previous night’s attack on the hospital and the assault on Detective Inspector Badger’s dream couldn’t have been coincidental. We’d both been in the hospital when the puca had been banished, and then a copy of the monster had assaulted us in the Dreamscape at the same time that the hospital had been attacked again in the real world. I didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. We’d been set up, and the beginning of a suspicion began to tickle at the back of my mind. I decided that I needed to talk to Toscan again. That’s when my phone rang.

  Chapter 16 1400, Thursday, October 1–0100, Friday, October 2, 2015

  “Hello, my son.”

  I froze. The voice on the other end of the line was familiar, and, until I’d learned of his betrayal, I’d considered him one of my closest confidants. Last time I’d seen him, I’d been so angry that I’d been on the verge of killing Fat
her Michael O’Hanrahan. I’d realized since then that my reaction had been counterproductive, but I wasn’t any less enraged at the man whose actions had cost me Dana and cost dozens of other people their lives. I almost hung up the phone, but there was no way that it was a coincidence that I’d received this call after the activities of the last twenty-four hours.

  “Mia told me that I’d have a few days to identify the killer before I had to report back to her. What are you doing contacting me already?” I replied.

  “This isn’t a call chasing after information. I’ll respect whatever agreement you made with Mia. I’m not in that line of work anymore. This is a personal call, Julian. You stopped by with one of my friends earlier today. He contacted me on your behalf and gave me your number. You really should be less trusting by now.” There was a pause in which he probably expected me to say something clever. That boat had sailed like Walmart on Black Friday. “Well, my son, I have in my possession an item that may be of some interest. I kept it when I was asked to leave the Sons—as an insurance policy. If you’ll meet me and provide sufficient…consideration, then I’ll be happy to help you,” he carried on, an unaccustomed note of avarice slipping into his voice.

  “How about I consider forgiving you?” I replied, my voice dripping vitriol.

  “Westminster Cathedral. Noon. Saturday. Five thousand.” The old man’s voice was flat and weary as the phone clicked off. Somewhere, my exhausted mind shouted at me that there was something the priest had said that I should be considering more deeply, but another part of me relished the idea of getting my hands on him again, while the largest piece saw this as a potential breakthrough in my quest to find Dana. If the device could find the mysterious killer, then maybe it could find her as well. I just had to find a way to get the money, and make sure that this wasn’t a trap. Somewhere in that stream of thought, I had decided that I would go meet the old priest.