Call Me Dreamer

by Ryan Maitland

  “Jane, meet Jeremiah,” Earl introduced, indicating the man that was stumbling beside him. Earl was doing his best to prop him up, but I wouldn’t lay money on the man remaining vertical for long, even with Earl’s help!

  “Earl,” I chastise, “is he drunk?”

  “This is about as sober as he gets…” Earl replied, sounding somewhat miserable.

  Out of the back seat came a man I recognized from my trip to the secret headquarters of Project Aesop, the clandestine CIA outfit full of psychics. His name was Monet Baggs and he was a cultist. People tended to believe anything and everything he said to them, so long as he was face-to-face with them. He was a Latino man with milk chocolate skin and a pencil-thin mustache. He was lean, but short (though still slightly taller than me). He wore his hair slicked back with what must be a large handful of hair product. His voice though… that was as silky-smooth as I think it’s possible to get while still speaking English. He was carrying what looked like a large fishing tacklebox and dragging a large piece of rolling luggage, whose wheels were getting scraped up from the gravel of the drive.

  “Mon Cherie!” he called in a smooth French accent that he must have spent a long time perfecting.

  “Still not interested,” I cut him off before he could make a scene.

  “Ah! You wound me!” he mocked, clutching his chest just before smiling a grin that was purely feral, like a predator on the hunt.

  “Can we do this inside?” Earl grimaced, sounding angry.

  “Peter, Wendy,” I turn to look at the kids on either side of the doorway, just in front of me. “These men are guests. Please don’t harass them, okay?”

  “Okay…” Peter grumbled, upset that he wasn’t going to get to have any fun.

  “Okay,” Wendy echoed, sounding indifferent.

  I wave the men inside and only got a strange look from Monet, who seemed unsure about the whole situation

  “You have ghosts?” he asked, sounding nervous.

  “Just a couple,” I shrug, waving him inside. “They probably won’t harass you, though,” I teased.

  “What could they do?” he chuckled. “I mean, ghosts can’t affect anything, right?”

  “Spookies make ghosts stronger,” Earl reminded him, perhaps a little maliciously. “Hers are about as strong as they come!”

  To prove this, Peter picked up a bit of gravel and threw it at the hard luggage case. The gravel bounced off the luggage hard enough to leave a small mark on the case, which made Monet jump a little.

  “Peter…” I reproached the boy, while also winking slightly to show that I didn’t completely disapprove of what he had done. Wendy giggled at this whole interaction.

  Once everybody was inside, I ushered them to the dining room, treating it much like a conference room.

  “Did you see anybody outside?” I asked Earl, thinking that Tim Foyle might be spying on me again.

  “No, nobody,” he informed me as he guided Jeremiah carefully into a chair.

  “Good,” I nodded. “So, how do you want to do this?” I asked him, eyeing the drunk at the table.

  “First, I’d like you to look into Jeremiah’s head,” he answered. “Then Monet will teach you how to disguise yourself.”

  “Teach me?” I asked, not liking the sound of this.

  “Yes, teach you!” Monet scoffed. “You’ll need touch-ups and I won’t be around to do all your makeup!”

  “Okay, fine, I guess…” I groused. Look, I get that, by now, any normal girl would have learned how to put on makeup by my age, but I am pretty damn far from normal… This felt like learning to be an adult, which didn’t seem fair as I never got to be a kid!

  “But do I really have to go into the drunk’s head?” I whined.

  To this, Jeremiah mumbled something, but I have no clue as to what he said.

  “As you can see,” Earl sighed, “Jeremiah isn’t the most… articulate man we have… All we could get out of him were the words, ‘Jane, catch, and cryptic.’ At least we think that’s what he’s saying…”

  “And so, you want me to tell you what he really means,” I sighed, more a statement than a question. I really did not like the idea of feeling what Jeremiah was feeling…

  “Exactly,” Earl affirmed.

  “Swell,” I acknowledged, sitting beside Jeremiah. The man reeked of what I assumed was cheap booze.

  “Jeremiah,” I called to him gently. “My name is Jane and they want me to look into your head to see what you see. Do you understand?”

  The man nodded and mumbled something I couldn’t make out.

  “Okay,” I acknowledge. “I’m going to hold out my and, if you’re okay with this, I want you to take my hand and try to picture what you saw before, that spurred you to tell them I should get involved with the cryptic killer, okay?”

  The man nodded again, then listed to one side, like he might fall over. Earl caught him and I was beginning to have second thoughts about doing this…

  I held out my hand and braced myself for what I was sure was going to be a bumpy ride.

  Jeremiah stared at the hand for a long moment, then carefully moved his hand to meet mine. He was staring at his own hand like he was operating a robotic hand using unfamiliar controls.

  What was I getting myself into?

  Our hands touched and my mind connected with his. I instantly felt dizzy, like the room was spinning and my neck was a spring that would not stop bobbing. I fought off a wave of nausea as I told Jeremiah, in a bare whisper, “Now, focus! Focus on the vision…”

  I could feel him closing his eyes and I felt a weird sense of pushing my thoughts forward. It’s like his mind was reaching for something, similar to what I do when I use a focus to connect to another’s head.

  Before long, the pitch black gave way to a grey fog that slowly cleared to reveal the bare bones of a cemetery. I was standing in front of a row of headstones, each of which had a foggy apparition standing in front of it. Numbers glowed a bright orange on their chests, showing clearly, underneath their clothing.

  Looking down the line to my left, I recognized Mr. Boday standing in front of the fifth headstone. To my right, stretching off into the distance, stood a line of blank headstones without ghosts standing before them. Standing in front of the seventh marker was a ghostly woman that I immediately recognized as myself. She was facing me and looked full of regret and shame. With a tear falling down her cheek, she turned to face the ghost standing before the seventh marker. As she turned, I saw that her back glowed with the same bright orange as on the ghosts, except that these marks showed the many scars I still bore from the many canings my step-mother, Billi Rubin, had given me.

  Phantom-me turned to the ghost in front of the seventh marker and whispered, in a voice full of anguish, “No more.”

  With those words spoken, the headstones to my right sank slowly into the earth without a sound, the dirt and grass covering them as if they never existed.

  When the vision faded, I let go of Jeremiah’s hand and winced at the brightness of the dining room.

  “Well, that explains it, then,” Earl almost whispered, a little breathless.

  I sat panting at the table and looked at Jeremiah, who looked close to tears. I glanced at the table and I saw that Earl had a tape-recorder out that was running.

  “Explains what?” I asked my liaison. “I haven’t even told you what I saw…”

  “Jane… dear…” Monet breathed softly. “You were narrating what you were seeing the entire time!”

  “I was?” I asked, trying to remember when I had a moment to do that.

  “You were,” Earl affirmed. “You told us about the cemetery, the line of ghosts, seeing your double, and the headstones vanishing after the seventh victim.

  “Oh,” I squeaked, a little unnerved that I had done something without knowing I had done it.

  At this, Jeremiah belched loudly, sounding more like a croak than anything else. With it came a cloud of sour wine that I waved away from my nos
e, going so far as getting up and moving to a different chair, one close to Monet, who seemed to be preparing for his part of this ordeal.

  I shook my head, mumbling, “Need more coffee… Anyone else want some?”

  Earl and Monet shook their heads, but then Earl looked at Jeremiah and mentioned, “Let’s see if we can sober him up a bit…”

  I nodded and left the dining room, dumping out the dregs of coffee from last night and starting a new batch. I stood impatient as I waited for the machine to release the magical brew. Once there was enough for one serving, I poured myself a mug, but set it aside, waiting until the rest of the pot was ready. I let the coffee in the mug cool to just this side of scalding, before drinking it in just a few gulps. That done, I refilled it before filling another mug for Jeremiah. By the time I returned to the dining room, I was feeling almost human again. I set the mug in front of Jeremiah before taking the empty seat Monet had set aside for me.

  Monet opened his tacklebox to reveal an assortment of powders, tubes, brushes, pencils, and tweezers. It was… intimidating to say the least.

  “Explain to me how you’re the disguise expert,” I half-joked as I looked over everything.

  “When working in the field,” he explained as he took careful stock of my features, “it helps if the people don’t know what the conman really looks like…”

  I nodded in understanding, envisioning the many enemies he must have accumulated by now by using his powers to con people out of their money, secrets, or other valuables.

  He set to work painting my face and comparing skin tones. Normally, my complexion is rather pale, due largely to my anemia, so he found it somewhat difficult to find a shade that would match my skin tone. He set up a mirror on the table and ordered me to watch what he was doing so I’d be able to do it on my own next time. He walked me through the concepts of foundation, highlights, tones, and complementary colors. My mind was reeling from all this new information it wasn’t, entirely, prepared for, especially this early in the morning…

  Before he had started, I had cheeks that were barely defined, dotted by a few freckles. I also had light brown hair and so-so lips. By the time he was done, however, my freckles were gone, my cheeks looked a fair shade of pink, like I was almost blushing, and my cheekbones were accentuated. He had also colored my eyebrows to a dark shade of black, which contrasted sharply with my pale brown hair. For this, he pulled out a Styrofoam head wearing a short black wig from his rolling luggage case. He made me put on a hairnet, showing me the best way to catch all of my hair, then ordered me to put the black wig on, tucking my excess hair into the lining of the wig. He, then, pulled out some hair clips to hold the wig in place. The wig felt hot and itchy, but I hoped that I could suffer through this, for the sake of finding a killer…

  Monet stood back to admire his work, but shook his head before pulling out a pair of large sunglasses and fitting them on my face.

  “There!” he proclaimed admiringly. “Nobody will recognize her now!”

  “Nice work, Mr. Baggs,” Earl agreed.

  “I’ll leave everything we used with you, dear,” Monet told me. “But you should buy some more of your own the next chance you get!”

  “And the wig?” I asked, trying hard to resist the urge to scratch at it.

  “Keep it,” he smiled. “But, when you’re done, be sure to put it back on the foam head to keep it from getting out of shape. You can reuse the hairnet, but you should get a few more for backup, when you need them. You can wear the wig without the hairnet, in a pinch, but I don’t recommend it.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind…” I muttered, too tired to argue too much.

  “And now for your codename,” Earl asserted.

  “Codename?” I asked, not recognizing the term. Honestly, at this point, I would have been smart to watch at least some spy shows and movies! But I was young and naïve and I just didn’t know what I didn’t know, you know?

  “One-time-use alias,” Earl explained, sounding a little like a professor. “This will protect your identity.”

  “Okay, then, what’s my codename?” I asked wearily. This had been a long day, so far, and I had learned far more than I had intended to.

  “For the next few days,” he announced, “you will be Agent Dreamer.”

  “Oh, joy…” I muttered, sarcastically, under my breath… I’m pretty sure nobody but Peter and Wendy heard it…

  Chapter 13

  Simon

  With my disguise and codename in place, I throw on the only professional-looking suit I own. With the wig, makeup, and now suit, I look like I could be a real government agent! The fact that I was actually an agent for the government was beside the point! Now I looked the part!

  I wondered, idly, whether Earl would let me have a badge… Probably best not to push it.

  I grabbed my bag that still held my casual clothes and almost bounced downstairs. I got an appreciative smile and arched eyebrow from Monet, who looked ready to drop to a knee and profess his undying love to me, but I only got a nod from Earl, the ingrate…

  With everyone ready, we filed into Earl’s government-issue black sedan. Somehow, I ended up drawing the short straw and had to sit in back with Jeremiah. Jeremiah, for his part, seemed grateful not to be standing any more as his head lolled limply on the back headrest. If any cop pulled us over, they might think Jeremiah was dead, rather than dead drunk…

  The first stop was the airport, where we dropped off Monet and Jeremiah. Monet was practically dragging Jeremiah to the front entrance, seemingly supporting most of the drunk’s weight. While they were getting out, I transferred to the front seat to sit next to Earl on our way to Iowa City.

  “I’ll let the agent in charge fill us in on the murders,” Earl commented as we drove.

  “I’m kind of surprised the CIA is taking an interest in this…” I remarked.

  “Normally, we wouldn’t be,” Earl explained. “But when we get a hit from Jeremiah, we try to at least look into it. The fact that Jeremiah insisted you be involved means we have to be a bit more careful…”

  “Why?” I asked, fearing he was going to patronize me.

  “You’re the most valuable asset in Project Aesop,” he explained calmly, like he wasn’t basically calling me property. “We can’t afford for you to get hurt. That’s why we’re strictly here in an advisory capacity. No heroics.”

  “No argument here!” I assured him. “Remember, I can’t run to save my life!”

  As cliché as it may sound, I meant this completely literally. With my ever-present anemia, running was completely off the table.

  We, eventually, stopped in front of what was clearly the police station. The building looked on the small side, with a glass front, a grey overhang, and a honking huge sign that said ‘POLICE’ in bright yellow letters.

  “Guess we’re here…” I whispered, thinking back to the subtler sheriff’s office back in Amana…

  Without a word, Earl got out and I took that as my cue to follow him.

  Inside, I saw a number of uniformed police officers going about their work along with a tall man in a suit that I figure must be the person we’re here to meet.

  “Agent Dreamer, meet agent Simon of the FBI,” Earl introduced us.

  Simon was tall, easily a foot taller than I am, which means he’s at least six feet tall. He’s large around the middle, suggesting he’s used to more office work than field work, though I could be mistaken, given that his hands are calloused and looked crushingly strong. Hmm… maybe it’s more muscle than flab around his middle. He’s wearing round glasses and his hair is cut almost military-short. He’s mostly clean-shaven, though I can see a day or two’s worth of stubble. That, along with some dark circles under his eyes suggest he hasn’t been sleeping well these past few days.

  Simon extended his hand for a handshake and I shook it, using my ability to get the measure of the man without his knowing. Once inside his head, I get a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions, which almost overwh
elms me.

  Why are THEY here? The home office wouldn’t have brought them in if they thought I could handle this… And now look at THIS cold fish of a woman! I’ll bet she’s a stuck-up bitch!

  I disengaged from his hand, reminding myself that we shouldn’t hold people responsible for their thoughts, as long as those thoughts stay inside their head…

  I decided to let Earl do most of the talking, since I figured he was the professional who knew what he was doing, while I was just the freak with the powers. Earl calls himself ‘Agent Flagg’ and tells Simon that we’re here as profilers.

  Simon puffs out his cheeks in a heavy sigh before nodding and motioning us to the office he’s been given. The room is barren except for the desk and a phone that looks like they were hastily thrown together. The chair behind the desk is one of those plastic and steel kind that are stackable and unbearably uncomfortable to sit in for long periods of time.

  Simon opened a drawer and pulled out a thick file that had subfolders inside it. I’m guessing this is the entire casefile of the six victims so far.

  With a sigh, Simon pulls out photos of the victims and crime scenes. Each victim has a look of pure horror with eyes practically bulging out of their skulls. I can also see that each victim was found in a cemetery.

  “How did they die?” I ask, my voice catching as I recognize Mr. Boday.

  “As near as we can tell,” Simon explains, sighing before continuing, “each died of a massive heart attack. The coroners are saying they believe the victims died of ‘sheer terror’…”

  “Do we know what happened to them before they died?” Earl asked, clinically.

  With a sigh, Simon nods and outlines the last few hours of each of the victims’ lives. “They were kidnapped, first. We think the killer used chloroform, or something like it, to knock them out before dragging them to a lair of some sort. There, the victims were bound with rope before they had numbers burned into their skin, probably while conscious judging by some of the marks on their bodies.”