Dream Riders

by Taylor Kole

  Justin nodded.

  Corey inhaled. Following a slow exhale, he lacked the stamina to list the many things that could go wrong, or the more important things they risked so casually: life, liberty, and their pursuit of happiness.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Cooper squinted against the sun as he watched the house. The naive occupants thought they were safe, that they had a right to peace. He knew if you had something someone else wanted, you better stay sharp. The Padeskys should know that. He’ll help them learn.

  Professional surveillance on the couple started two months ago. Their vehicles had been wired with GPS units; mirroring software had been installed on the phone, and home computer. State of the art pattern detection software aggregated those tags into coherent and predictable snapshots of their lives.

  Cooper knew the number of steps from bedroom to bathroom to kitchen, and where the dressers, bed, couch, and table were positioned. He knew the Padeskys ate a mostly vegetarian diet (and that Corey sneaked in the occasional Chick Fil a), and by pinging the cell-phones around them, who they spent time with when apart.

  If a private citizen could gather this level of detail in eight weeks, the government must know the last time each person pleasured themselves, and which way they folded and wiped when using toilet paper.

  Chuckling, he presumed somewhere—at that very moment—a read-out informed some top-clearance employee as to the terror he planned for that night. As long as it didn’t affect their control of the masses, the government wouldn’t interfere. Hell, they supported the spread of fear and insecurity.

  Tonight, twelve hours past Walt’s deadline, he would violate serious laws to earn stock in a future billion-dollar company. He would use that money to purchase a palace. He would then build his own dossier on the of-age female relatives of his ex-wife, maybe adding a close friend or two, and apply detailed courting, ending in marriage. From there, he would show that woman a blessed life, all in the name of revenge.

  His phone vibrated. His six o’clock text: nothing new. Three more would come in, every other hour, until either the Padeskys made contact, or Cooper took the final step to earn their compliance.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  A lance of pain in Lisa Flicker’s chest snatched her from sleep. Fully awake, her chest actually stung. There was pressure as well, as if a hand was holding her down.

  She slowly moved her hand toward the pressure until they felt fur. A moment later, she heard the sound of a purring cat. As she relaxed, Smokey meowed near her face. The smell of tuna bi-product hit her. She lifted Smokey and said, “You need a breath mint.”

  Fearing Smokey had broken the skin, and blood would stain her beloved Tosh.O T-shirt, she sat forward, and reached for the lamp.

  From the floor, Smokey meowed even louder.

  “Hush, you big baby,” Lisa whispered, and then paused before turning on the lamp. Plenty of space separated her room from where Janey slept. Lisa could have admonished the cat in a normal tone, yet she had whispered.

  Lisa scanned the dark room. A sliver of moonlight backlit her and outlined the door. She heard the hum of electricity coming from the kitchen, and nothing else.

  Smokey meowed again.

  Lisa covered her mouth with her hand. “Damn it, cat.” Still whispering, feeling exposed by the strained cry, Lisa snatched at the lamp, nearly knocking it over in her haste to combat jitters with light.

  The twenty watt bulb, shielded with a frilly lampshade, cast a timid glow around her bare knees and feet. With much of her fright chased away, she smirked at the absurdity of being scared of the dark at her age. She had experienced similar bouts of paranoia weekly, when alone. They always passed without incident. Finding Smokey on his haunches, watching her, brought back why she was awake.

  Squatting closer to the lamp, she peered down her shirt and saw three red dots over her left breast. She’d cover the nicks with band-aids and then go back to sleep.

  Five paces would lead her to the bathroom’s light and greater comfort, yet she stayed sitting on the bed. She turned and looked out of the large window behind her.

  A three-quarters’ moon added a spectral hue to the cloudless night.

  Including her four college-aged female roommates, the average age of the residents living on their block was over sixty. Three of the five houses across and to either side of her were unoccupied during the scorching summer months.

  Empty homes conjured grim feelings in her. Homes were meant to shelter life. She swallowed, and wiped the sides of her mouth.

  Stop freaking yourself out! Lisa moved to the bathroom and turned on the light.

  Lifting her shirt, she dabbed the three puncture wounds with moist toilet paper. She covered them with a band-aid, redressed, and moved to extinguish the light.

  With fingers on the lamp switch and pressure clamping the dial, she hesitated. She removed her hand and peered out of her half open doorway, toward Janey’s room.

  She had left both doors open so she could hear, but now she wanted to see.

  Lisa opened her door all the way but didn’t venture into the dark hall. She only listened, even closed her eyes a moment to better focus, but heard nothing.

  She was drawn back to the light of the lamp. To the dresser it sat on, to the top drawer’s handle, to the loaded pistol inside.

  Just being near the weapon comforted her.

  Lisa had hated how loud firing the gun was. She hated picturing the effect a bullet would have on a person’s chest and the organs inside.

  An audible click, as if a beetle had flown into a window, echoed from the main door. The sound rebounded down the dark hall.

  Instinctively, she stepped closer, padded halfway down the hall, and listened.

  The main door’s deadbolt slid through its straight plate.

  Racing back to the dresser, she grabbed the 9mm, disengaged the safety, pulled back the slide to verify a chambered round, and turned back to the sound.

  A man’s silhouette loomed at the end of the hall.

  He was over six foot, broad of shoulders, and seemingly clad in all black. Without the gun in her hand, Lisa would have screamed and started babbling. She pointed the gun at him.

  Blood surged through the arteries in her neck forcefully enough to create a swishing sound in her ears. She blinked hard to recalibrate. She clenched her jaw.

  His center mass presented a larger target than a cactus during her earlier target practice.

  The shadowed outline of a gun was in the intruder’s hand. She moved her feet shoulder-width apart, kept two hands on the weapon, and put the man in her sight. She wanted to yell “drop it” or something, but she stayed ready. If he did anything other than drop his weapon or leave, she would shoot.

  His weapon stayed low, but he charged.

  She raised the gun and squeezed the trigger.

  Lisa went deaf, and momentarily blind.

  Time didn’t slow for her, it jacked forward, for she suddenly straddled the downed man with her gun pointed at his chest. Her ears were ringing. The barrel rocked inches left and right from her trembling.

  The man raked his hand across his sternum over and over. She’d made a direct hit, center mass. He writhed his legs as if seeking hold, but they kept sliding against the tile. Even in the dark hallway, she saw his eyes strained wide with panic and confusion.

  His “gun” was near his head. Faint moonlight reflected off its yellow casing, identifying it as a taser. Plastic zipties had spilled from either a pocket or his offhand.

  Imagining a man of those dimensions seeking to bound her or harm a tiny child eliminated all guilt. She pointed the barrel at his head and considered firing a safety round.

  However, Justin had been clear on Nevada law. Shooting an intruder was perfectly legal. Adding shells to a downed and disarmed man—regardless of him entering your home illegally, wearing a ski mask, and all black attire—could be a criminal act.

  Get the perpetrator down, disarm them, and contact the police.


  Something pinched against the inside of her knee. Looking down, she saw Janey’s hand. The rest of the girl was behind her. Janey stared at the intruder. Shadows protected her from the most gruesome aspects, but she was clenching Lisa’s leg tight.

  Wanting to shield her from seeing a dead man, she guided them back a few steps, and scooped up the shocked child.

  Reaching under Janey’s armpits while holding a loaded gun stopped the lifting.

  Using the soft glow of the distant lamp and the feel of her fingers, she engaged the safety. She then attempted to stuff the heavy metal into the waistline of her panties, but it wouldn’t stay.

  Taking Janey by the hand, she led them to the bedroom, rested the gun on the dresser (making sure the barrel pointed toward the wall), placed Janey on the bed, and inspected her. The young face was devoid of expression. She ran a hand through the strawberry blond hair.

  “Are you hurt?” Lisa asked.

  Janey met her eyes, and shook her head once, slowly.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” She scanned the small arms, both sides of her face, lifted the shirt, each pant leg.

  With the scene secure and her charge unharmed, Lisa’s mind moved onto the next step: calling the police.

  The roommates had purchased a multi-port, universal charging station for their phones and devices and kept it partially hidden in a cubby hole in the kitchen. With no land lines, she needed to go get the phone.

  Lisa took Janey’s hands in her own. “I have to run to the kitchen and get my phone. I’ll grab it and come right back. Five seconds.”

  Janey lifted her hand and pointed behind Lisa, down the hall, in the direction of the phone.

  The emptiness on Janey’s face troubled Lisa, but kids were resilient; more so than adults. “Yes, I’m going to run down the hall to the kitchen, grab my phone, and hurry back. You don’t-”

  “The bad man’s getting up.”

  Still squatting, Lisa looked over her shoulder. The intruder was sitting up. He patted the area around him and stopped. His head leaned closer as if he noticed Lisa’s attention.

  “Get in the bathroom and lie down in the bathtub,” Lisa ordered. Without turning her head—since it was of a secondary concern—she pushed Janey backwards, perhaps too hard. Crossing over the mattress was the quickest way to the bathroom.

  At the same time, she reached for the weapon. Her rocketing adrenaline affected her aim, sweeping wide, she toppled the lamp, and bumped the gun. Only the tips of her fingers stopped the pistol from crashing to the floor.

  This time, she would shoot his head, multiple times.

  The bathroom door slammed shut behind her.

  Good. Janey didn’t need to witness brain splatter.

  Twisting back, she gripped the gun tight in two hands. The man was looking behind him, as if he’d dropped his keys. He reached toward the stun gun.

  Lining him in her sights, she powered one step closer. Two.

  He must have been wearing a protective vest, but since shooting his chest had disabled him, that’s where she aimed. Once she knocked the wind out of him, she’d shoot him in the head, twice. From eight feet away, with perfect aim, she said, “Hey asshole,” and squeezed the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  She applied greater pressure, but the trigger was welded in place.

  Remembering the safety, she turned the gun in search of the lever.

  As she found the safety, fangs bit into her thigh. Her body went rigid. Electricity surged in her veins.

  She dropped the gun. Her body followed.

  She ached and seized, but remained clear of mind. Her body simply wasn’t responding. Strong hands flipped her onto her stomach. Zipties secured her arms behind her back. She clenched at the idea of her panties being torn away.

  She tried to scream for Janey to run. With no bathroom window, Janey would have to run past them to reach the exit. Lisa would kick hard and as many times as it took for Janey to make it.

  The fingers in her right hand moved. A second later, she rolled onto her side.

  Before she celebrated, a boot connected with her stomach. It felt like a cannonball fired from close range. She crashed into the box spring.

  She was pulled away from the bed and kicked again.

  She heard a rib break on kick three.

  Pulling her away from the bed for a fourth time took all the fight from her. She sobbed uncontrollably, snot drained into her mouth.

  He stepped over her and padded toward the bathroom. She loved Janey, wanted her to be okay, but she was overwhelmed with relief that he’d moved on from her.

  The selfish thoughts made her cry, but she had lost. Was it wrong to appreciate an end to personal suffering?

  She waited for the sound of the bathroom door being kicked open.

  Instead, the man spoke. “You stupid bitch.” A fist slammed into her face.

  Blood filled her mouth. The back of her head cracked against the tile. The next impact shattered teeth.

  On the fourth punch, she tried to speak the ugliest words of her life, ‘Just take the girl and go. Please, stop. Just take her and go.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  Marci recognized two of the officers—the blond surfer type and Rodriguez. It helped to have recognizable faces break the news of Janey’s abduction. Rodriguez seemed determined to stay in the room with them, even when the FBI showed up and assumed control.

  Two agents introduced themselves. Others received permission to search the premises and, once given, excused themselves.

  Marci examined the law man standing in her kitchen to gauge his type. She knew about police, authority figures in general, and believed they fell into one of three personality types. They either were hate-filled and cruel, regular people doing a job, or idealists interested in justice as defined by innate morality.

  Any of those three would help her get Janey back. She knew Walt had their daughter and that knowledge bifurcated much of the pain.

  Janey would return safe, and be stronger from overcoming the struggle. That ended Marci’s worry. Now, she was just mad.

  Agent Wentz wore a coal black suit and appeared young for a man in charge of a case drawing media attention from multiple local channels. Forty-ish, with lush black hair. He had a bulbous and pot-marked nose centered on a swollen head. He had blotchy skin, a pooch belly, heavy calves, wide hips, and was pigeon-toed.

  Addressing Agent Wentz, Marci said, “Where’s our twenty man team, the gadgets on our phones, the forensic scientists in the white jumpsuit.”

  “We have an army of agents working Janey’s disappearance. The crime scene is overcrowded. To monitor the phones, we only need your permission.”

  “Of course. Do anything,” Marci said. “Is there any good news?”

  “We found nothing to indicate Janey was injured and Lisa is alive.”

  Marci winced. She hadn’t thought about Lisa. She remembered the words “lucky to be alive.” Such a brutal abduction erased the hope this could end positively.

  “When things are nearly all bad, you need to celebrate any good news,” Agent Wentz said to Corey—who had been given a sedative by a paramedic.

  “Are you ready for my list of suspects?” Marci said.

  “Very much so.”

  “It’s a short list,” Marci said. “Officer Rodriguez knows the one and only suspect. If they filed the reports, it’s documented.”

  “We filed it, ma’am,” Rodriguez said. Seeing his concern and sympathy for the current crisis removed any anger directed at him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “No need to be,” Agent Wentz said.

  The second federal agent, who clutched a tablet, motioned toward the dining room. “Mrs. Padesky, we’d like to record this conversation. With software, we can identify points of emphasis with video analysis that help us determine the best place to begin.”

  With parents topping the initial suspect list, she suspected the software doubled as a polygraph.
/>   Corey spoke, “We’ll help any way we can.”

  Marci almost added, ‘and we know who did this,’ but she held her tongue. She would wait until they were settled, allow them to read the truth in her face and tone.

  Once seated, the agent propped the tablet so the lens viewed the couple.

  Agent Wentz addressed his partner, “Are we set?”

  The man nodded.

  “We know exactly who did this,” Marci began. “The question is, can you arrest him?”

  Agent Wentz waited.

  Sticking to the story of them using sounds, lights, verbal suggestions, and other physical manipulations, she retold it from the beginning. Starting Dreamriders.com, meeting Walt, his offer, their lack of interest (for personal reasons), his escalating threats leading up to two men scaling their walls dressed as assassins, and now crimes worthy of life imprisonment and lifetimes of burning in hell.

  Finishing a notation, Agent Wentz said, “We will pay this Mr. Zimbardo’s a visit before the day’s over.”

  “Can you go right now?” Marci asked.

  “We have one stop before that.” Agent Wentz said.

  “What stop?” Marci asked. “Go arrest him.”

  Agent Wentz breathed through his misshapen nose. “A statement from the witness could go a long way. If she identifies anyone, we can arrive with an arrest warrant.”

  An image of Lisa’s care-free smile flowed across Marci’s mind. Picturing her in a hospital gown with a face covered with stitches and gauze, she wondered if that smile would ever part as effortlessly. She dragged out her abracadabra necklace and massaged its surface. “How is she?”

  Agent Wentz nodded a few times as if searching for the right words. “She’s sedated. Her doctor says I get twenty minutes, but no more.”

  Corey asked, “Are her injuries life-threatening?”

  He frowned. “She’s critical, mostly as a precaution. She’ll live, but she’s in for years of surgeries.”

  Multiple surgeries meant no happy ending. Getting Janey back safely and enforcing justice would have to do.

  “Lisa’s a brave woman,” Agent Wentz said. “She surprised the intruder, scored a shot with a .9mm.”