Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  Corey watched respect sear into Marci. Lisa Flicker had just made a friend.

  “Do you have any enemies?” The blond officer asked as Rodriguez scanned the floor with his flashlight.

  Corey had a clear suspect in mind, but after how well their previous police contact went, he said, “There’s no one.”

  “Yeah, there’s someone,” Marci corrected. The blond officer pulled out his pen and paper. “The problem is he lives in Chicago and has too much money and influence to be named as a villain.”

  “But you have a name?” Rodriguez asked.

  Marci checked with Corey before she said, “Not at this point.”

  “We’d be more help if you pointed us in a direction,” Rodriguez said.

  “It would only confuse things,” Marci said. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Well, whoever did this was a big man. Roughly a size thirteen shoe,” Rodriguez said with a nod toward the backyard, “and he left a decent indent when he dropped from the wall. If you have any theories on why…”

  The couple shook their heads.

  “You’re going to want to get a name on file,” the blond officer said. “Start a paper trail.”

  Marci smirked, “I’m assuming this incident counts.”

  With the blond haired officer seemingly willing to accept whatever theory and continue on with his night, and Rodriguez staring as if eager to help, Corey pulled Marci aside and whispered, “Maybe we should tell it all again? They seem willing to listen.”

  Marci thought a moment, nodded, and then spent the next ten minutes detailing their theory.

  With Janey present and Lisa listening intently, Corey wondered if perhaps they should have spoken in the other room. He would hate to scare off their trusted babysitter, or worse, place her at risk.

  When finished, Rodriguez flipped through his three pages of notations, but stayed quiet.

  They rented a motel room for the night. The officers said they would stick around a few hours, gather evidence, and keep an eye on the place.

  Lisa followed them in her Fiat. After two honks of support, she headed home.

  With the car running, and Marci in the office paying for the motel room, Corey thought about the gaping hole in their house. Predators were stalking them.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Corey learned the value of having a friend who is also a handyman.

  Corey had waited until seven in the morning (an hour Justin previously mentioned was his coffee time) before calling to tell him about their property damage. When Corey arrived at his home, Justin had already gathered the required tools and found a replacement door.

  After a stop at the glass supplier and a careful shimmy inside the house where they placed the new pane on the master bed, the two men assessed the necessary clean-up job.

  Justin hovered his hand over the brick, which was now on the counter. “Is this thing safe to touch?”

  “Yeah. Rodriguez, the cop from last night, left us a voicemail saying they gathered all the evidence they could and would be in touch.”

  “The yellow chalk,” Justin said as he lifted the brick and turned it, “must be for fingerprints.”

  “He took this crime seriously. He’s very professional. He and his partner ran tests and dusted areas all over the place. They even found the brick’s original spot in our wall.”

  “Kind of makes it look spur-of-the-moment. Like some kids on a dare,” Justin tossed the brick out of the opening, where it slid on the desert sand.

  It irked Corey to hear Justin simplify the crime. Especially since most people probably believed the same. He wanted to go into the whole Walt extortion thing, but only said, “The cops are leaning toward a botched robbery. Some perp saw the lights off, thought the house was empty, heard Lisa stir, and ran.”

  Justin grabbed a broom from the closet and swept shards into a pile, “Do you own a gun?”

  “No.” Using an errand notepad, Corey swept debris from the counter and into the garage can. The manila folder containing Walt’s offer was atop the trash. It seemed to shade the dark question even further. Should we buy a gun? Could I shoot someone if necessary? Could I shoot Walt for the crimes of attempting to ruin our business, threaten our safety, and violate our home?

  Corey created a scenario in his mind. Corey with his gun on Walt. Walt would have his hands up, backing away, pleading for Corey to calm down and not shoot. Corey recoiled from the images. He doubted he could shoot anyone. But he could fire a shot in the air or at someone’s feet.

  “Well, what do you think about owning one?” Justin said.

  “I’ve never thought about it.”

  “Have you ever fired a gun? Does Marci have strong feelings one way or the other?”

  “I’d say neither of us likes the idea of living with something so dangerous. I had a cousin die and an aunt lost a leg from accidental shootings.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Justin said as he swept a pile of glass into Corey’s makeshift dustpan.

  “Marci has her own stories, most everyone does.”

  “I guess I know of some accidents.”

  “People always think it won’t be them, and then a gun they purchase shoots up a school. Do you think they’re glad they bought it?”

  “No.”

  Corey picked a final shard from the floor.

  “I’m not a hunter, nor a gun lover,” Justin said. “Still, I support the second amendment because gun ownership is what prevents government oppression and foreign invasions.”

  “I never took you for a guy worried about the government.”

  “I can see how you think that at first. Resisting those in power sounds crazy, but every modern genocide was perpetrated against an unarmed populace. That always stuck out to me. And in World War Two, the Axis generals wanted to invade America. Did you know that? Us being armed was the only thing that stopped them. In a declassified document, Japan’s top general said they never invaded America because there’d be a gun behind every door.”

  “Wow.”

  “I’m proud to be part of that.”

  “Don’t you worry about safety?”

  “Yeah, but I built a solid oak gun cabinet for our 12-gauge and 9mm,” Justin said. “We keep the cabinet locked. The guns are loaded, but the chambers are empty. Chevy knows not to go near it.”

  “As much as I hate the idea,” Corey said. “We might need one. When Lisa thought someone broke into the house, our best weapon was that jagged silver cross Mr. Luhn gave Janey.”

  Justin grinned, “That is a pretty gnarly cross.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if Marci’s surfing gun websites right now. Although she’s probably still sending hate mail.”

  “Hate mail?”

  “Yeah. She’s ticked off. She’s been emailing Walt’s known businesses to let people know he attacks children and young ladies. I asked her to dial it back. She might be playing into their hands, but something tells me that man’s gonna regret picking a fight with us.”

  “I’ll bet,” Justin said as he knelt to pry an errand shard out of the door track with a Phillips head screwdriver. Standing, and as Corey located another fleck in a potted plant, Justin said, “I’ve been meaning to discuss something with you.”

  “Beyond the great gun debate?” Corey said.

  “Hey, I won’t debate you, but in these times of instant outrage, guilt without a trial, and vilifying groups of people, I’m glad Americans are armed to the teeth.”

  “Well, it’s something to consider,” Corey said. If Marci pushed for a gun, and he agreed, they’d use trigger locks as well.

  “I hoped to further discuss my dream—the one you witnessed.”

  Corey pulled out a chair, sat, and reflected on Justin’s dream. The weight of absorbing hundreds of different personalities and loving each one put a smile on his face. “That was the greatest event of my life.”

  Justin joined him at the table. “Mine too, man. Mine too, but I want to ask you something and I need you to
tell the truth.

  “Ask away.”

  Justin squared himself to Corey and said, “Last night I had a super vivid dream that you had more answers for me.”

  Corey understood Marci and Justin’s subconscious assisted the original dream, but he believed the vital boost came from the blue Being. That was as far as he took his pondering. Considering the Being’s origins, or anything beyond that was too much to think about flippantly.

  To avoid a deep conversation about the blue Being, he clicked into assistant professor mode. Using collegiate terms, Corey explained how the ego worked, quoting Jung, and Erickson. He compared the Dream Ride to hypnosis: that the client remained in control the entire time. He rehashed how Marci guided and enhanced a person’s buried self, but excluded her claim she could override a person’s want if she chose.

  “That sounds good, and seems to explain portions of it. It’s only, is that what you believe? that all those people were buried in my subconscious?”

  Corey pictured the deodorant-blue Being waving its hands in circular, wax-on, wax-off motions. He believed the Being was from another dimension and had given him that dream to share a truth about life having purpose and being special. He felt that in his marrow, but how do you begin that talk?

  “I just want to hear your take, Corey. I’ll respect whatever you say.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Corey said, but he immediately thought he didn’t want to discuss the blue Being. He knew Justin would filter everything through the Bible and he was concerned about Justin’s faith overtaking his life.

  “Well, then what? Something’s eating at you.”

  “I’ll tell you, but I want you to stay cool.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Justin beamed and scooted the kitchen chair closer. “I knew you were holding back.”

  Corey let it all out. He started with the Jinni in Walt, the vision of hundreds of Jinn with varying shades, and the darker Jinni in Hittin’ Licks. Finally reaching the additional influence in Justin’s dream, he told him about the blue Being. While doing so, he kept recalling his feel of comfort and love.

  When he finished, Justin dropped his head. “Praise Jesus, my friend. All glory to God.” Looking up, he said, “We have to share this with people.”

  Corey chalked the last sentence up to excitement, ignored it, and said, “Marci thinks these are manifestations of a client’s subconscious. We have to consider that she might be right.”

  “No offense, pal, but Marci is wrong.” He smiled warmly. “There’s a fight for good and evil on this planet, and you’ve just told me I’m on the right side. I can’t thank you enough.”

  “We have to keep this to ourselves, for now.” Seeing Justin’s confusion, he added, “I’m asking you to let Marci and I decide when and what to do. If word spreads, we could end up as lab rats, or lose Janey to some tabloid lifestyle.”

  Justin thought for a moment and then nodded. “I understand. I’ll keep your secret. You have my word, but I’m going to do more, spread the word of God.” He lumbered from the chair and walked until he was looking at the manila envelope in Corey’s garbage. “Also, logic tells me we should fight a man possessed with evil, not help him, but I want to make a suggestion.” He picked through the glass fragments and carefully tugged the envelope from the trash bin. Passing it to Corey, he said, “We’ll figure out how to help his soul or defeat whatever lives in him later. For now, you’re going to want to sign this.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Because Walt’s not going to stop until you do.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Walt dreamed that he padded around a dimly lit circular room, similar to a cosmological observatory, minus the telescope and its slit-like opening. Eloquent letters and numbers pulsed in and out of the air around him. They transformed to streams of Chinese calligraphy, then bursts of ancients hieroglyphics, and finally pulsing alien text from undiscovered galaxies. Each strobe conveyed the same message: Walt was superior to the masses. He always suspected that, but appreciated the validation.

  A dream shift and he stood on the podium wearing a suit and his favorite power tie: blue with gray slants. The throng waited quietly for his speech. Whispers of his genius and his exemplary vision at finding and releasing Dream Riding to the world abounded.

  An unidentified man appeared at a podium next to Walt, as if he was waiting for a turn to speak with Walt’s crowd. Walt wanted to push him back as he approached. Instead, Walt stepped to the side and allowed the man to use his podium. WHY? When the man waved to the crowd, they cheered with equal excitement. No—and Walt hated to admit it—they cheered more for the interloper.

  A dream jump. Walt at the head of his father’s prestigious board room, addressing his father’s peers as their new leader. They hung on his every word, knowing the topic of the day was, “how Walt would make them all richer.” Then, his father interrupted him and introduced the faceless man at the opposite end of the table, average height, and sickly thin. Everyone turned their attention from Walt to the intruder.

  What was this bastard’s deal?

  A jump to a childhood favorite, his father’s study. Walt was confident the guy wouldn’t follow him here. Although Walt appeared as a forty-seven-year old man, his father and the room’s design remained the same age and décor as they had in his youth. He waited patiently for his father to finish his current agenda—a phone call to the head of a Paris cosmetic conglomerate. Yet as the image clarified, he noticed his father held the phone limply and kept pausing to compliment a man seated across from him.

  Walt balled his fists, and squeezed. The unidentified man sat with his legs splayed open, wearing shorts of all things. Shorts! In an office. The man bobbed his head as if he was a little bored with Constantine Zimbardo’s adoration.

  Walt cleared his throat to interrupt, yet like a ghost unaware of its own demise, no one reacted to him. He spoke calmly. He shouted. He took a stance between his father and the man, and waved his arm. Nothing slowed the benediction. Finally, Walt walked over to the man and swung a haymaker. His arm passed harmlessly through him. When he regained his balance, he stood on a rocky bluff. The Grand Canyon split the earth to his right. The wind howled hard enough to knock him down. He smelled the onset of heavy rain.

  The man sat with his legs dangling over the cliff’s edge, with his back to Walt. His long ponytail whipped in the breeze. Long hair was for women and queers; the drama starters of the world.

  With the wind silencing his approach, Walt walked directly behind the man. With one foot, he pushed the unidentified man over the edge. He leaned over the rim and clapped as the body fell. The man was facing Walt as he plummeted. His arms and legs were spread. The offensive ponytail acted as a fifth limb reaching toward Walt.

  A moment before the man crashed upon the canyon floor, Walt startled awake, and smiled.

  While it remained fresh, he stewed on the dream’s pleasure, and fell into a small trance. It was eventually broken by deliberate shuffles in the hall outside of his bedroom.

  Lashinda used to rush in and hurried him along if he slept even one minute past his alarm clock. Starting a year ago, he decided he didn’t like an obese black woman with rhinoceros hips greeting him each morning—even if she brought a warm smile. He told her to wait in the hall until she heard him enter the lavatory.

  Since the exhibitionism, she always darted in and made his bed, often before he completed his morning pee.

  He hadn’t yet goosed her with his full mast, but he would. Imagining the look on her face always cheered him up.

  As his feet met the cool cedar floor, he remembered his father’s office in his dream, recalled the falling man with the ponytail.

  By the time he activated his toothbrush, the majority of the dream had slipped away. By the toothbrush’s first beep, indicating said tooth had been properly cleaned, he only remembered he’d been mad at some man, and they deserved his ire.

  Having several casual meetings with subordinates planned for the day, h
e dressed in designer jeans, Tim Jones dress shoes, a Versachi button down and compatible sports coat.

  Entering the dining room, he found Florence and Bart sharing a bowl of fruit. Bart was telling his mother about a recent outing with a young lady, and how he believed the night had gone well. Noticing his father’s arrival, his back straightened and his tone sharpened as he finished his sentence. “It’s only been three weeks, but I think she is interested in joining the Young Democrats club with me, and perhaps in the near future, allowing me to take her on a proper date.”

  Walt informed Wendy he wanted Crab Benedict for breakfast and stopped at the end of the table, where he watched his son. The boy had dark hair with radiant blue eyes, like Walt in his youth. He was handsome, intelligent, and well-liked. Bart had studied overseas, avoided the mindless obsession of internet surfing or watching television. The Smartphone took chunks of his life, but nothing comparable to his peers. He spent his time in study, and wanted to accomplish big things. Being attached to his mother situated him with a weaker position than Walt at that age. Her compassion kept him clueless to what he could get away with, or be forgiven for.

  “You have a pretty lady on the ropes, huh, killer?” Walt said to his boy.

  “Only the most beautiful girl in school,” Florence answered for him.

  Bart licked his lips before adding, “She’s class president, fluent in three languages, and yeah,” his smile increased, “I think she has the hots for me.”

  “She has the hots for your last name, maybe,” Walt said, “which you’ve yet to earn.”

  “Walt,” Florence admonished.

  Seeing the hurt creep into his son’s face fueled the excitement of delivering truth. “If you want sex from her, just corner her and tell her to give it up. She’ll do it because you’re a Zimbardo. Lord knows you don’t exude enough masculinity to get it any other way.”

  “Shut your foul mouth,” Florence said and threw a quartered orange at him.