Chapter 8
Sleep had been no friend to Ashe. His dreams, whenever he was able to fall into a deep enough sleep to have them, had been filled with images of Owen, lying dead in his bed, his skull blown out from the back. There hadn’t been any sensations in the dream except for sight and Ashe seemed to be viewing the death from the doorway of the bedroom, as an observer afraid to pierce the barrier. As he peered into the bedroom, he saw that everything, the bed, the ceiling, the floor, and the walls were covered in blood. However, the blood was not crimson. It was a light blue. The blue blood was everywhere and it almost resembled the beginning of a clear, cloudless sky.
Death never created a clear blue sky in its wake, he was sure.
Scott had never entered the dream, either as witness or killer. Even in his dream, Ashe was uncertain of his son's role in the shooting.
Due to the restless sleep and bright blue dreams, the psychologist found himself in his cage, pulled up to his desk, at 6:12 A.M., which was slightly over an hour earlier than his day usually begun. Massaging his temples, he tried to rub away the sleepiness so that he could focus. Sitting on the desk was Scott's dream journal, opened to the third page. Next to the journal was a tiny notebook. If, while reading through the journal, anything jumped out at him as possibly being important, Ashe could write it down.
Three pages in and Scott had written nothing but strange images and fragmented recollections.
...watched myself from above, leaving the white house from the front door. I walked around the left side of the house. As soon as I went around the corner, a dim, dark figure also came out from the front door of the house, following me. The figure wasn't fully there. It was barely visible. I don't know why it was following me around the white house, but I don't think it meant me harm. At least not yet. It was watching and waiting. This isn't the first dream. Always the white house and dark figure. What if the figure is death, following me from a safe distance. What will happen when it decides to catch up to me? I can't say for sure...
The journal did not contain any times or dates, so Ashe had no idea how old any of the entries were. They could be days or years old. The thought frustrated him. But he kept the journal opened and read on to the next page.
...blue lady laughing. Blue lady dancing. Blue lady...
The journal should not be years old, he found himself sure. It was barely over half-way filled. Scott had begun writing down his dreams when he was young and, even if he threw them out along the way, there should have been more than one journal hanging around. Where were the other journals? Where were they? Did Scott throw them away? The other ones most likely didn't matter, anyway, because the one in front of Ashe appeared to be the most recent. And the most recent journal would hold the answers, he hoped.
For a moment, Ashe leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Jerking back forward, he pulled the small black and gold container from the pocket of his slacks. The little piece of plastic was a true enigma. It looked like a lipstick container, but obviously held no actual lipstick. It was a container, but it was too small to hold most things.
What was inside of it?
Ashe opened the container and tried to peer inside. Tilting it in slow circles, he tried to get some light to fall into the opening. Finally finding the right angle, the above light revealed what appeared to be a thin, barely noticeable cluster of white powder at the bottom. It was barely there.
Drugs? Ashe wondered. Could drugs be the main factor in everything?
Closing the container, he placed it in the spine of the journal.
A cup of coffee steamed nearby, the aroma of the caffeinated beverage filled the small room. Taking the white dome lid off of the cup, he sat and enjoyed the aroma. He never allowed sweetener or creamer to touch his coffee…it took away the bite of the drink. Whenever he drank coffee, Ashe needed the bite.
He took an easy sip. The sip stung his tongue, but he took another one immediately after.
Opened and pushed to the side of his desk, a laptop chirped. The tone was a beep, short and sweet, letting Ashe know that he had received a new email. Making sure that his cup of coffee was out of the way, he quickly pulled the thin black laptop over to him. Maybe it was a message from Oscar, an update of some kind on his son's case. Perhaps Scott had been located. No. If Oscar had found anything new, especially Scott, he would not use an informal email. Oscar would have called.
The email was from Warden Chase. The warden was a workaholic after his own heart and Ashe was not surprised to have a message from her at an early hour. Sometimes he even questioned whether or not the warden ever actually went home, or even had a home outside of the prison. Maybe there was a secret bedroom connected to the warden's office, one where she slept and bathed, never having to leave the premises. That might be why the warden could be found in her office or roaming a nearby hallway at all hours of the day and night.
Ashe sighed lowly. What could she want? He wondered. The title of the message was a simple word. GRUB. He immediately opened it.
Dr. Walters—
Your request has been approved.
--Chase
The message was simple like a twig but as heavy a tree trunk. The psychologist couldn’t help but to smile. After reading the email, Ashe suddenly vaulted from his desk and headed out of his cage.
Ashes to Ashes Page 9